by Jim Daniels

Me, 34, her, 27, landed in Rome
in January, to clear deep-water sky
and the sweet bitter of escape out the back door
of bills, jobs, and the architecture of adulthood.
We took a train in the wrong direction
and emerged into the jet-lagged splendor
of an empty piazza, fountain trickling
onto uneven stones amid the pressed perfume
of espresso from a nearby shop.
Our hearts were morning. Bristling,
we shivered, avoiding shadow. The sun,
icy flame-ball tamed by the soft running
of our noses, the holy tissues, the relics
of dark churches abandoned behind us
like out-grown crutches, oh, we squinted
and held each other, striding, click clock
against stones, doors bleeding closed
behind us, the stigmata of our breath rising.

Jim Daniels’ latest books are Rowing Inland, Wayne State University Press, Apology to the Moon BatCat Press, Eight Mile High, stories, Michigan State University Press, and Birth Marks, poems (BOA Editions, 2013). Daniels is the Thomas Stockham Baker University Professor at Carnegie Mellon University.