You Are Not A Gladiator

It first occurred
To me that you may be
of Rome. In that, it
is the softness; out
of final heat as in
the red-lacking
afternoon, of shorn grass and Grecian columns, how they
borrowed all the Old Gods and here, lending
out my Apollo against the chipped
Railing. I am not Roman. Of that I am sure.

Here. Myriad, orange:
Green: Grey: Hope and it
Culminates in the antiquity of removal. Diamonds
Are refracting all this
Anger is it yours? All I
Find is
Intensity and there remains
(to be)
A difference.

After the panorama of
Heightened variation on town and brick…
The Coliseum faded behind flagpoles
And busses and flocking
Mallards. There is not
Any remaining
Explanation. You are
Smiling.

It is enough.

You cannot be
A Gladiator all the
Rough evolvement of
Silver and bronze, a praetorian
The color in your
Textured arms, the build
Catching beauty in
The sun and the
Circular sweep of
Vision.

I always affirm that it is
The Light and I am only
Captivated
By the reflection
Of passing Chariots.

Oh.

Cars.