The day the fascists took Wash-
ington, it was night
in Rome, where I hid
in a rented house in Tras-
tevere, certain rooms locked—
because I could never afford
it all. I ran into Rosanna
,a good egg, and we didn’t speak
of the end of the world as the hope
,fighting against all odds for eight
complacent years, took two steps
back in five minutes. For
“No man’s fuck is holy
because man’s work is most war.”
Is good really so relative
its works can be blown away
in an instant in the winds of wrong?
I guess wrong knows
all the tricks—from open carry
to concealed weapon.
is the bells ringing across Rome
this morning, signaling the loss
,again, of a good man gone down.