It starts with her eyes falling on the shoes,
More than once wading over their braille-like indentations
All a-swirl, she saccades to and from their tongue
Not in envy, quite, or solely.
“I remember Venice,
And the beautiful people.
How I beheld them, O, and the past
Quickly wrapped up and delivered
Back to you in an instant,
A perpetual gift,
Like some priceless masterpiece:
History, genius, art in their fashion
Masterpieces on the tip of water and tongue.
You could leap with reckless abandon
If you were prepared to let go
Of the sides of things,
(Rather than holding on with due care
And I am fond of precautions)
Touch the same water those mythical Italians
Blessed with quivering lips and sighs.
To hear the bluster of young lovers
Submerged in their volatile embrace,
They forget themselves to the world
And you only a pair of eyes
Alighting on another foreign world.”
Here she pinches the brew between hands.
Does she clasp it tight
Or hold it tenderly?
With a slow swallow her eyes cannot help
But skim the outlines.
“Tell me. Tell me
If you bought those shoes there?
Or if it is merely some soft desire
Creeping up on me again?”
– 24 September 2016