Under the sublime Tuscan sun,
With wafting whiffs of all that’s citrus -
(Pinot noirs and limestone distemper)
She’s reading Dante,
With precision or with partial purview

Fingertips resonate the call of olives
As I detonate all rhyming crescendos,
(Blow arpeggios in legatos to hell)
We transcend into two desperately living souls -
Prisoners of our heroic imagination

Then raindrops twinkle like shooting stars
Glasses brimming with chardonnay leave
She goes back to her solitary throne -
(Princess practicality in a polka-dotted frock)
I return to my lonely laboratory of dreams.


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