Rome a labyrinth of guttering lights. Flickering, never quite aflame, but for the remnants coming still and going floating across the cobbled streets, their wisping back and forth from the Castel Sant’Angelo, those flames that would sputter out and stop sometime around the 19th century.
(An awareness of the burnings at best obscure now in autumn’s crisp seams of smoke, glimpsed maybe but to remain unprocessed passing the grim unintentional irony of the bars that belt this once Field of Flowers, that flame against the cold and damp)
The guttering amber light of Rome. Resin-like, seductive it is somnambulist.