Monday, August 20, 2012

Heart My Lovely Hobo by Sandro Cisernos

Heart, my lovely hobo, you
remember, then, that afternoon in Venice
when all the pigeons rose flooding the piazaa
like a vaulted celing. That was you
and you alone who grinned.

Fat as an oyster,
pulpy as a plum,
raw, exposed, naieve,
dumb. As if love 
could be curbed, and grace
could save you from daily beatings.

Those blue jewels of flowers in the arbor
that the bees loved. Oh, there'll be other 
flowers, a cat maybe beside the bougainvillea,
a little boat with flags glittering in the harbour
to make you laugh,
to make you spiral ince more.
Not this throbbing.


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