There's Eros in the air, Mediterranean Eros that makes you high.
Spells of Eros, froth. The heart throbs out of the chest and bees
hunt down street nectars. You, whose hand appears to pluck pears
These flitting silver moths are evening's eyes "off of" pear trees
dancing their vigil round the lilac bush. of poetry. Then our well
Summer's intoxication makes us wise. studied smoke with mock
The god of passion grants our every wish. cruelties edged side-
The village sighs goodnights. Since vineyard toil ways into our
came to its restful pause, domestic lamps facial features. They
still hold desire but have spent all their oil. soon melt, become
What's that to us? Our fingers and our lips small tournaments
have miles to go yet before we get home of lips, turns to storms
with a few foolish fireflies in our hair. of eyelash gesture. Yes,
Are we immortal? Evanescent hope I do capitulate. Embrace me
spins lunar sweep-nets in the swooning air, coldly, dizzily, drive
and this experience fits like a glove deeply out all my sorrows,
what Diotima taught us about love. for I truly am going crazy
for the love of you. What do we do, where do we henceforth flee?
To the wee, the even downright minuscule room still available in
the motel—a single-bed with a view to finish what we promised.