I.

You look at me with a
mouthful of sun, an easy

toothed bracket of apology
and mutual embarrassment. I

pick up your handfuls in
a graceless arm and one-

-at-a-time hand you two
wooden swords, a shield-

rim, and a bagful of
market-new petals.

II.

The flowers we gave each
other are crushed under-

foot by Marcello,
attendant to Florence.

They bleed just a little, vegetable-
soft on the wood. Marcello’s

run through by his brother,
and I wait for you in the wings

as they empty to be
alone with you, to hold the

pulp, bleeding, as you clean.
I don’t think to mourn them—

tomorrow they’ll surely be
more.