Furio Camillo – ing
The first figs have split at the seams
in the famously endless Roman night.
She briefly rippled across
the darkened windows of shops and cafes
vacant words tracing and echoing steps.
Within the jerky circlings of bats,
crickets’ tetchy scratchings complement
the far harmonics of mid-Summer stars.
Sleepless, a neighbour
is murmuring to some god or child.