Imagine Audrey here,
escaping on her moped with Gregory Peck –
beauty on the run, her princess accent,
her wind-ruffled hair, doing the things
that common people do in 1950s Roma:
eating gelato, dancing on the river bank.
The aching, sun-bleached, black and white glamour
of it all. Then everything stopping –
her small white hand slipped inside
the dark open mouth of the Bocca della Verita – 

just like the one here. And the gods,
the saints, the dead celebrity
in his alabaster boat, the severed hands and feet,
the talking heads… all pause and listen
just like in the film: what is the forever truth?
But then Gregory pulls back her small white hand,
saves her from Soane – the dark gloating
of memory. Time enough for that.
There’s Gregory’s almost kiss coming closer;
jazz of second improvised on second;
and the breath-stopping beauty
of her here-and-now profile against the light.