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.