Half past two, the autumn showers
drop as if someone unzipped the clouds
to pour. The goddess is careless to the change of the hour
she descends into the thermal waters,
plaid patterned swimsuit,
volcanic breath from the earth's sigh
the water ripples as she touches the surface
her hair fraying.
Three on the main clock in town
and autumn is still showering down
her thoughts drown, she loses gravity
she falls forwards, like a drop
he catches her.
Three ten, the Roman god flexes his muscles
lifting his arms towards her
she notices an old battered olive tree behind his shoulder
squeezed in its enormity into a small pot of clay
she marks the freckles under his hazel eyes
it reminds her of a place she once called home
the water ripples.
Three twenty five, he's talked to her about the
great Roman empire, as if she never knew what it meant
of flat, rocky steps, and arches and education
of art and mighty men and wars fought for women like her
like her he says. As he moves towards her
she sucks the heat of the water, dreams of his lips.
Three thirty,
the water is boiling, all she sees is fog
frayed up hair, Roman chins and Roman glory
oh, all the great cities
the sounds, the heat, the fury
gnaws, escalates, grunts,
the water ripples.
.
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