Baci Baci Baci

A garden

late spring, honeysuckle and lazy birds

heavy with the round scent

of tuberoses and jungle gardenia.

There is a man

in boots that make his thighs

look lethal   with a whip

no spurs

medieval sorrow in his eyes

or around the mouth, maybe.

He is dangerous

in this place he has

the fertility of steel.

There is a woman

in a vine green habit   her

veins are purple, her blue

eyes. She is blonde

though sometimes brunette:

     “My horse is lamed

       I was riding, I...”

And — still in the heavy air

they push each other down

like dogs with fleas

under the bushes, in them.

The camera pans to the nearest tree

the cat approaches like a panther.

She is also in boots

like an empress

who loves horses.

The man puts on spurs:

there is combat

     his knightly despair

     her deathly power.

The witch burns, finally —

the lamed horse returns.

                      Love you,

                         Lanita