i swallowed the air

between cobbled steps,

sat at the feet of

santa maria del fiore,

an old friend.

she whispered perfect doubt

into my young-sure mind

of affairs between walls,

and the life in those of cells,

and that one is

thousands of years old

and the other is not.

so, i am always there

as sure as i folded up the map

and slipped it into

my coat's breast pocket,

as sure as my red blood

carried the same substance

she breathed. and youandi

is as true as campanile bells

calling to mass is dance

of things unseen and feet.