Sunday, May 1, 2011. I poeti lavorano di notte. Quando il tempo non urge su di loro,. Quando tace il rumore della folla. E termina il linciaggio delle ore. I poeti lavorano nel buio. Come falchi notturni od usignoli. E temono di offendere Iddio. Ma i poeti, nel loro silenzio. Di una dorata cupola di stelle. When time does not press on them.

Monday, April 30, 2012. Darkness fell -so did my slip, dress and heels. He switches off the lights, I turn them on. Absinthe scorches my lips, his thighs. We tango hip to hip, my feet never touch the floor. He trademarks my neck with his teeth. Green nymphs parade across his shoulders as we dance. Fast, slow, matching, pacing. His smirk, a result of my rowdy lament. Bound, by his coarse hands and palatable cologne. I tease, he begs, I relish.

Just like my Mother,. Instead we add it in. Dash here and a dollop there. But my father, he measures. Two or three times before putting on his goggles. And turning on the saw. Much of the real lives. But if we are lucky we. Learn it as we grow.