Pompeii or some other place

Burn soft

Into charcoal and pastel dreams 

Kissing women and men,

Who call –

While leaning out their window

“I, Split rose,

I, honey dipped thorn

 sell rags that beggars have blessed

And saints have left by the river.”

Their lips wet with mead and wheat  intoxicant,

Droop down into the vines

Trelissing o’er villa walls

Faded gold bedsheet o’er shoulder

And fitted at waist,

Young men lazily sing lullabies

Praising Dionysus.

My cousin

Tickles the stream of sunlight

Plucking each string

Nights forever in the open court

Of women and men

Kissing golden half sandglasses

Filled with mead.


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