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  • Seneca Basoalto

Every Scholar has his Folly

I. You fantasize about a patch of daisies and a grape vine.

Dirty knees, as well as cattle fields, remind you of lace latent

innocence playing with bubbles in bathwater, as you watch

from chair, legs crossed, seductively reading Voltaire.

II. You smoke three cigarettes a day before you kiss me.

The mouth of a washing machine, you enter the room

like a storm on a swing, ready to coddle whatever harvest

has blossomed from the orchard of hungry Sicilian angels.


III. I ate ice cream without a spoon as you ate me from folklore.

Every scholar has his folly, always a girl, a crow on her broach

that never stays properly pinned, unlike my boughs to a mattress

whenever I am alone with the violet veins in your forearm.

IV. I spread myself among the clovers and wait for you to find me.

Melting into the moss, dawn breaks ancestries down into a caramel

tongue that is bound to yours from between the viticulture and gulley,

with a mind of its own, your body speaks for itself when it catches me.

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