You trace the corner where the ink turned brown
Salt crust eats the greeting word by word
The Piazza Navona wears its crown
Of pigeon dust and yesterday's espresso
And the postcard rots behind the fountain base
While Rome still sleeps behind her wooden shutters
You hold the rust like communion half a prayer
Before the first cup wakes the marble gutters
A Vespa coughs on Via del Governo
The barista unlocks heavy wooden doors
You hum the alto line from Gloria
The steam rises up from copper floors
And the postcard rots behind the fountain base
While Rome still sleeps behind her wooden shutters
You hold the rust like communion half a prayer
Before the first cup wakes the marble gutters
The postcard glue has crystallized to sand
Your thumbprint lifts the corner where Venice sank
A nun adjusts her wimple crossing the square
The bells toll seven from San Giovanni's flank
And the postcard rots behind the fountain base
While Rome still sleeps behind her wooden shutters
You hold the rust like communion half a prayer
Before the first cup wakes the marble gutters
The ink bleeds rust into the fiber's heart
A tourist asks directions in broken French
You fold the rot into your coat pocket
The square wakes up with noise and coffee stench
Choir breath remembers sustain release
The salt and stone hold silence between notes
No halo here just hands on ceramic
The morning breaks in fragments not in wholes
The postcard stays a relic in your wallet
The espresso burns clean bitter holy
You taste the salt the ink the morning's chorus
Rome writes her liturgy on you slowly
And the postcard rots behind the fountain base
While Rome still sleeps behind her wooden shutters
You hold the rust like communion half a prayer
Before the first cup wakes the marble gutters
The choir rises from the cobblestones
Salt on paper holy in your fingers
Salt on paper
Salt on paper
Morning breaks
