I gave her my Italian jeans, too
the ones I got in Florence
she wears them better, anyhow
so I gave them to her.
Curving and tapering where mine
inelegantly hung, inappropriately bulged
(and I could never find the right shoes).
See, she manifests all that Italy
was to me then,
all that Italy promised me
or wanted to promise me. As I
senses deranged, appetite whet,
at loose ends with myself and desire,
was losing a war fought with full lips
and fierce beauty.
she is all that Italy promised
a temple, a flower, an endless banquet.