Your smile is as vague as a cross-desert freeway
in July summer somewhere amidst Nevada:
one stands as if one’s drowning, almost like sinking.
You're moaning sweetly, lips are a bit astringent.
And I love you only, and this avocado,
and your down jacket, also a little fruit-like.
As you walk, dancing, "Oh God," will sigh a stranger,
"how beautiful you are, so humankind should be".
And God will hear this sigh while on Hollywood stay:
creating worlds in movies – that is God’s leisure.
In movies, and there only, there is the freeway,
that, similar to your smile, amidst Nevada
dawns, like a mirage, dancing, glimmering, ghost-like.
You’ve sprawled between the sheets and I’m as the Buddha:
I’ve seen the light and know just how it all should be,
a holy mantra's singing soundless within me.
For that impetuous season until il canto
d'amore dictates rhythms to the heart firmly
la poesia, honey babe, non e morta,
it's at your feet bewildered, God's little wonder.