Even in Umbria, Montefalco rosso freshly
staining my lips as I stumble through
the violet hour, I'm just any girl
who loves full, fat roses, the stubborn
sweetness of short-term beauty. The vines
have climbed these walls for centuries, and
I'm sure some other ragazza has stopped
to nuzzle the petals and dream of his fingers
through hers as he pins her wrist against the stone.
But this early evening, this November night
is mine, is ours, as new fantasies swirl
with dry wine on my tongue.
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