S.P.Q.R.

Cascade skies caught us in wanting,
mouths open taunting spilling to the 
camber of the stone. Alone, and of the
city grown silent sodden, dethroned

statues nod in discreet accord; breaking
hints toward questionless lips, Romulus
feeding from Aurelius’ quips. Even to
date with memory’s fare, we bare the

silver spoon: teacher’s teacher, grimless
reaper, it’s been months our hands
still prune, November rains of Rome
exchange the orange clouds of June.