Abbiamo Fatto Mai Amore

Light moved
slowly in
thick, fatigued,
grainy, sepia
day-waves.
Reflecting vaporous,
weaving,  ghost-hands.

Rum wet,
pallid,
statuesque.
Awe as a
little liquor
fountain-ed,
down breasts.

Trembling, sensing
phantom limb,
dying to be touched.

Mortal hands
awakening,
Thighs-hips-Angel-flesh,
I’m caught a midst those russet wells,
She sings:
“You’re Fresh”

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