The Ponte Vecchio was built
For butcher shops.
The river stitched with bridges
Ran with blood.
The only one Hitler spared,
From windows cut
Just for him to love the view.
The bridge of padlocked love.

In the shadow of the old bridge,
The statues glow in the dark.
Our room oversees
The grip of Pluto clamping
Deep into Proserpina’s
Fleeing thigh, her fleshy hip.
My haunches are her haunches.
Be mine but I couldn’t be yours enough.

Cosimo I de’ Medici didn’t want to walk
To work over the smell of blood.
So goldsmiths replaced the butchers.