Under Limestone
It rained in fluted torrents,
the earth smelled of manure.
It was like desire
entering and possessing you quietly.
We undressed.
The sun through the windows made shapes
on the couch I lay face down on.
Our jeans were soaked
and wrinkled on the radiator, our socks heavy.
Then your eyes were opening a little.
Then you could hear the mopeds starting up again.
When it was dry enough, we found a small bistro
where we had prosecco and fries,
and took pictures of one another in our damp clothes
under trees and buildings
of the hated regime.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.