il colosseo roma in leather-scented dusk grips the night, marble hand on woman's thigh; these evening breaths are half-lit by awning lights and candle-flame laughter. waiters serve wanderers searching for home under the light of the half-moon – they don't tell us that these shores have too much mystery for us. some homelands are sun-steeped histories cradling darling secrets between ancient bricks, ancient tombs.
 
the amalfi coast whispers seashell lullabies to the old-souled man plying whiskers of melodies out of his tin-flute, traipsing in a pit-patter down the sandy road leading to the ocean beach. he watches drowsy-eyed windows blink pulses on the beach – they caress us to sleep in lulls and crescents.
 
the florentine memories are all mine - bacchan dreams; how you turned my head away from the window, wrapped me in whiteness like newborn's skin. you, the child of a mountain spring where gods were born - the softness in your neck betrays this to the doves. heartbeat an adagio in old italy, heather scent stirring the air like eye of newt in witches' brew. love, your body like a holy city – lamplit streets between dusk and dawn leave little to the wishes of the heart.