At Santa Maria Trestevare

Immigrant gypsies circle the fountains, 
selling the tallest of the long-stemmed roses. 
Keen industrious vendors seeking those
effortless to spot: the shine that ripples 
from within the limbs of newfound lovers. 
St. Francis too embraced the thorns, 
every agony that burrows—each green nail
that stabs then sprouts the humane in the heart.
The Ecstasy of Saint Theresa required no explaining.
I stopped for Corvo Rosso in a dream. 
The carafe refused to empty even as I poured. 
A flower-seller strolls to where I dine alone, 
al fresco. Let me place place these snowy petals
on your eyelid and teach you how to mourn.  

Peter Marcus | On The Field of Mars
Contents | Mudlark No. 55 (2014)