Stratified marble, cracked charcoal lines heading up
The obelisk jarring a pencil-point into blue expanse.
Would Keats too have known petulant bodies,
Staining these pallid steps beside poesy romance?
Smack! There—red splattered across white
Damasked roses perfumed rustic copper
It’s liver gushing down the Spanish Steps,
Gladiatorial appeasement for Roman honor.
Cracking joints, the butcher stoops low,
Scooping unctuous flesh from filthy stone
Yet a pinkish tinge remains, feathers for
Augurs, if their birds were but thrown.