I came upon you, empty city:
I didn’t even know your name.
I knew your streets were coarse, but pretty;
your steeple had basked in red-hot flame.
I preyed upon your altar, then:
your cobblestones, I ate with the spiderwebs.
I marched upon your open palazzos,
with steel toes and minuets.
I would’ve drank from your fountains, two:
too bad I didn’t bring a cup.
I bathed in your sunlit gardens;
and your prisons, I shook them up.
Your brothels and your cigarettes,
I carved into the hollow of my skin.
I took a dab of oyster juice,
for the port, and the sea, within.
I tarried longer by the market:
in its autumn, I espoused a feast.
I wanted olives for the baker;
all I managed was dry yeast.
Evening came, and then I scurried:
I was swept away by glove-dealers, astride.
My carcass, they dropped a bridge, it under;
but my songs, they hummed with pride.
The title poem from "At The End Of My Travels," availab!