In the tiny crypt of Diocletian's Palace

Santa Lucia is surrounded

by notes for instance please

take care of my father or thank

you for our life here.

Everyone's feet ache on the steps of the bell tower

and the man has been looking for hours but cannot

find the temple

of Jupiter. He has been looking all morning and now

he is sick of the pale stone squares on the ground.

Nearby a guide avoids the word Christian

so as not to admit a ruin's newness.

Two men raise their phones

to snap Santa Lucia

in her lake of letters. This place is like a maze,

a woman says. The man decides if he doesn't

stumble across the temple soon

he will look at it on the internet in his hotel room

even though he has already today referred

to the hotel's internet policy as draconian.

At least he can say he was there.

If there is anything you have forgotten you can ask me how it was,

says Jupiter. In the temple he holds one palm out

with fingers gnarled upwards, still stuck

holding the globe he's lost.