The white dot
At first, the white dot
could be the dot created by holding
a magnifying lens to a brittle leaf
that landed on the sidewalk,
the dot shimmering in the intense heat,
then smoldering and searing and smoking.
But no, the dot is the ocular opening
in the domed ceiling of the Pantheon,
sunlight and blue sky showering through
on this fine Roman day,
expanding into a spotlight on part of
the floor and columned wall.
But no, the dot is one of the euro coins
in the front pocket of the tourist
who has his hands stuck in those pockets,
both because he thinks it looks cool
and he’s been told to be careful of
pickpockets who target tourists,
and he remembers coins in this country
used to be called lira,
and the value of the currency
still changes all during the day.
But no, the dot is a wheel
on the touring bus going
round and round on the street
outside the Pantheon,
wheels also on the scooters and
motorcycles and cars,
all blurring with the speed
as the machines rush onward.