Water pools the roof into mirrors
thin as any, the storm lilting

Now that I am up here in the sky I can see
The mare di San Tommaso is a puddle of ink,
A hierarchy of imperial blue tints, tempting

Let them twirl a dance
Of shadows, she so graceful
In the hand over hand, he

Because he resembled her father
back in DesMoines she did not
feel frightened when he took

Each day the purple clematis climbs further up the wire beside the kitchen door
Green fingers twine around the strands of wire
And soon there is another blossom with a yellow star at its center

I am falling into the abyss
My fate is sealed
What a cruel martyrdom

Could it be that I am the one
who is the false Dmitri the

For those little stabs of pain
in the region of the heart the

When I was a young man
chasing girls I was so
hot to get into them I

The mind of a lover is a labyrinth
of false starts and miscalculations