Let the creamy lace drip
from our parasols
melting in the May afternoon.
Lick them clean.
The horseflies dance their salty flamenco:
my leather boots, their stage,
Creased like the wrists of a bullfighter
Creased with dirt and time and Pamplona.
Today, your golden hair is limitless
and you're tipsy on Italian sausage and lemon ice,
thin lips swollen with the cold and the spice.
You smile coquettishly
at the trapeze swinger,
in all his gaudy glory,
swinging high as any savior.
When the horizon is smeared
With ten thousand purple ochres,
I know it's time to take you home.
At your threshold,
You leave drunken kisses on my cheeks,
my fingertips.
You mumble, "Today was wonderful, darling."
I nod, much to your dizzy, twinkle-eyed delight.
No comments:
Post a Comment