you are quite artful, you pretty thing.

you speak to grecian statues,

voice warm like white wine

and cherub's cheek

under soft finger pads.

you clutch

the filthy ears of your sons;

browned,

but translucent under

the midday sun

like jellyfish washed ashore

after a bad storm.

you gaze into the space above

my head

because you don't want to look at

the last dredges of ice tea

left in your martini glass.

my apologies

for the mess i left on your neck.

lip balm looks shiny

when you tilt that pretty head

of yours, arching your brow.

subject change like

hard turns on a puttering

italian motorbike.

you said you were going to

show me around

that country villa of yours,

you coming?

sharp turn, indeed—

but i for one do not mind

the vineyard, tousled sheets.

(29June2020 11:10PM)

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