Nu
I felt nostalgic when I cried one night
for the short laughter of glory
the noise of the day stopped, and
the soft song of the crickets
commenced
keeping me company as I dreamed
about the fiery rays of your glance
and the fragrance of your flesh
that I longed to touch
I made it my goal
to lie next to you and play
in the delirium of your embrace
I felt nostalgic about becoming
one with you
during that hour of the donna di notte
that stirred its beauty the first time
I heard your erotic song and
I said,
the time has come again
for me to taste the fruit
of your enigma, oh, woman with
such attitude and passion
with endlessness in your eyes
into which the shadows vanish
during the noon hour of July
and I said,
The space in the car was
small and lustful, and Eros couldn’t
wait any longer as it flew over
your flesh trapped in your longing
for consummation
two bodies hungry for each other while
the cicadas kept on singing and
dogs rested under the oleanders
I felt nostalgic to see you naked
again, and Fate granted me my wish
for just a short moment
when I eulogized the nipple
of your left breast that
my lips took and painfully bit
your apotheosis was at that moment
woman, when time was annulled and
I learned the lesson that
couldn’t hold me prisoner when lust
transcended all bounds and
made man immortal

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https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763777

ORESTES

Under the moonlight the houses get lower down
at the plain, the corn creaks from the wind or the need
to grow bigger, the whitewashed bases of trees gleam
like mowed columns in a noiseless war, while the signs
of the small shops hang like verified oracles on closed
doors. Farmers must have slept with their arms over
their bellies and sleeping birds with their light feet
clasping onto the tree branches not trying to hold onto
something, as if trying is nothing, as if nothing happened,
as if nothing is about to happen — weightless, weightless
as if the sky has spread amid their feathers, as if someone
is passing the long and narrow hallway with an oil lamp
in his hand and all the windows are open and, out in the
countryside, you hear the animals ruminate calmly as if
they exist in the eternal.
I like this damp quietness. Somewhere close by, in a humble
house, a young woman is combing her long hair, and next
to her, her spread undies are breathing in the moonlight; all
of them flowing, slippery, happy. In the baths, water is poured
out of big urns onto the necks and breasts of young girls, the
small aromatic bars of soap slide onto the tiles; bubbles split
the sound of water and laughter; a woman slipped and fell;
everything slips because of the soap — you can’t hold
the bubbles nor can you get a hold of yourself — this slippage
is the reoccurring rhythm of life — women laugh and blow
the white, weightless, tiny towers of soap-bubbles from
the little forest of their mound. Isn’t this happiness?

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763815