Wednesday, March 07, 2007

ode to late night conversations

winter has emptied the pub
a snowplow scrapes away what remains

another scheme creative dream unfolds
i think of a song in italian
che so bello da morire
you’re so beautiful i might die
between hands i hold the need
to touch his fingers

i take his words lovingly inside
plate scraping substitutes
for a full meal
when the meal is done

this morning i wake late
the sound of his voice in my dreams
i am so hungry

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