At the Flower Market
At the flower market
I found spice, holy water,
cobblestoned obsidian dreams,
but no flowers.
The blustery Tuscany day
showed me its underlying graffiti,
incantations of poetica esoterica,
and yet another way
to excavate the mystery.
Nostalgic Roman nights,
Spanish palabras, Sicilian incantations,
idyllic panoramas; promises
enough to purchase the moon.
Such a foolish sacrifice to
fresco up for portfolios in
sanctuaries precious
and profane.
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