Valentino

Bellissima!
I watch her run
down the Tuscan hill
and glide along
on its unevenness
with fluid grace, 
very like a woman
out of Muybridge
(not nude, of course).
So in that way
I drink her in
frame by frame
as a lover might,
instead of with selfish
flipbook insolence
like a fucker would.
Her long cascade
of silken midnight tresses
bounce and wave
against the back
of her scarlet dress-
an affront
to the languid citron green
decline under her sandalled feet.
She laughs at Boreas,
a real bully today,
who only succeeds
in stirring the grasses
to curl in obeisance to her.
And like a baffled fool
I'm still perched
on the hilltop.
"Come!" she commands sprightly
before racing further down.
So,
I come.
I chase.
I catch.
But she lets me.

We later march back up
through the vineyard
and filch some of its
bursting green grapes.
And back under the cool awning
of our fave little cafe
we use them
to play table hockey
with mozzarella
string cheese,
but they all roll to the floor.
She uses one as a prop
for her sexy Groucho
while I, of course, insist
on a playful duel,
one without a clear winner, though,
because the 'swords'
break apart,
pieces fly everywhere,
our waiter is quite irked
but we just laugh
and laugh.
"Ah! Baciatemi!" she bellows abruptly
and lunges across the table at me,
upsetting the wine glasses
and our half-bottle of Chianti,
all of which join
the grapes and cheese,
and presses her painted, full red lips
hard onto mine,
a violation I invite.
We quickly have each other
under our tilted table
and amongst the upset chairs
while the world around us freezes,
and we make noise enough
to unsettle even the dust
of the jaded Old Romans.
Bellissima!


I jolt to the waiter's voice
sounding above me.
"Yes, just a little more wine.
Grazie!"
I gaze around the serene cafe
then out across the terrace
to the rolling hills,
cumuli shadows sailing across them.
The low buzz of insects
waft in and out of earshot
in this intense June heat
and the sun has inched ever
further west.
I gaze at the glass on my table.
The day's half over
and I want to cry.

Sure,
just a little more...



So after we're roundly ejected
she and I each, in our slight undress,
try to hop frog the other
down the dusty road
to the village.
(Don't ask me why.)
But again we laugh and laugh.
until suddenly she grips me by the shoulders
and pulls me close,
nudging my stubbly cheek
with her pert nose,
her hot breath
grazing my lips.
We share vino bacis
and like oiled cogs
pivot our faces to the valley
we ascended from.
"E notte?" she coos warmly.

Oh, tonight?
I smile.

Tuscany
will be all fucking ours.




DB/2.2017


Happy Valentine's Day, mi amanti del amore!