Poems
stealing pearls
from the golden Moscato hedges
quick hands
white in the morning
rummaging through fallen gowns
grasping the grapes
to their twisted meat
stealing hands
in verdant vortexes
while lurking in June
that year between the rows
the partisans were buried
wine became bitter
no rise in the glass
of any good foam
stop right here
a cart with grapes has passed
in veiled silence
a man has passed
with all his suffering
she will come barefoot
as in the summer dances
giving me Moscato grapes
sweet as her eyes
as sweet as her blood
