Before a theater still rubbed with the white of the Collosseum, a nun with an ace bandage-wrapped arm stands still, looking up toward the sound of the bell tolling time.
The train jerks forward into movement, the wheels scratching across the tracks with a sound like cranes screeching into a hollow of sky.
Someone has corralled Italy with color. Like a tour guide lining Rome with English, these groups stain the paths between train stations, a trail of lime green words like small chain links hooked together.
A stretching of brick connects us and the boys. We prop in the window, shudders thrown open, silent in a huddle of womanhood. We listen to their crowing, to the squalling of their jokes, a murder pitching voices into the alleyway.
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