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Belligerent Poetry
sitting above the Tiber
thousands of years have washed this way.
history lost from individual memory,
no vague recollection,
few true stories.
yet somewhere,
underneath it all, this same river.
we are less than glimpses.
how strange a thing
my mind must process
here today.
Sorrento tomorrow, and next week
just a memory,
as i sit in an apartment
again in Tokyo.
will the river even notice
that i came and went?
i have doubts, cross-legged here in sunshine,
watching its water flow.