the holy rose-
pink light of earliest morning
doesn't even
seem to arrive—because
it's always already
been here—generously
warming to glaze
these old Terracotta
gazebo
roof bubbles—and tumbling
to shine those few
grapevine strewn
paths of round limestone—
and gently swooping
to comb
and sooth the distant jungle-
green morass
of thatched cottage tops—
underneath which
underneath which
such wonderful!
heterosexual Caucasian
couples—advisedly
fuck missionary,
devout
to keep padding-
out
the reserves—of an army.
