Tonight,
I am adorned in baby blue lace.
I have boundaries nevertheless.

You can be my marionette
says the old man
in the high Polazzo.
You can sway
and twirl
beneath my world
according to my needs.
I can only request
that the gold with which
you tie my limbs
be plucked vehemently.

Sundays, too, I thought of you,

particularly more than was healthy,
and when rain had kissed 
much of what I could not 

before noon. 

Those were the days of
witless,

wishful

thinking.