of a cold November breeze and scalding
cappuccino in a paper cup that would drive
American lawyers to drool is somehow
the perfect painful pleasure for my tongue.
The market stalls are mostly closed, a few
men linger, thinking I couldn't possibly
understand the Italian for "tall blonde."
My eyes can't open wide enough to take
in the dazzle of an Umbrian evening.
Blinking is a criminal waste of time when
so much beauty lays before you, but
ecstasy always leaves me heavy-lidded
and breathless.
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