Insalata Mista
The smell of a just-struck match
in a Tuscan piazza
brings back electric green
memories of a half dreamt girl.
A slender silhouette
spun of silk,
turns a moonlit corner,
in a dress that moves like smoke.
I follow the scent of
jasmine and abandon
down nameless streets
that hide secrets.
A smile of promise
and forgotten summers
melts into mist
as I make the jump back.
“And for main course sir”? asks the waiter.
I don’t know but I will answer
with more certainty than when you ask me
“What were you thinking”?
No comments:
Post a Comment