Island traffic slows to a halt
as screeching gulls reluctant
to lift heavenward

So often I dream of the secrets of satellites, 
and so often I want the moose to step 
from the shadows and reveal his transgressions, 

Cobbled streets have the burnished look of stone skulls
sinking like a necropolis of Ugolinos from centuries 
of bewildered tourists stumped in the Eternal City, mulling

Major Jackson reads a poem that pays homage to history, and the many ways it may be written and rewritten.

Major Jackson considers the state of American poetry in 2019.