Day 17

In the shower, your skin is pure marble, il bello bianco
mottled with flecks. Lost on Roman streets
that curve away, past the midday shadows
I wander, every neuron takes siesta
libido sleeps under the veranda and I make small steps
until a fountain rises suddenly,
a figure of man at lofty heights, startles
when he climbs from the basin to the
piazza where cafe tables grieve the absent
throngs of sight-seers who sip bitter espresso.
Down into my chamber and stretches on my bed
this statue warms up, comes to life
that pallid face to rosso tint,
satsuma-peel curl of hair, a flame atop
the sweet baritone of muscle.