At one crest in our lovemaking, Before the countless widened eyes Of ready-to-be-seen-and-see antique puppets, He laughed and wrapped His waterfall of waist-length hair Like a dark flag around my throat— * It became a summer ritual: I’d arrive, Just as Marco Angelo was closing: In our daft, eleventh hour re-enactment Of his salacious museum tour, Like an appraising collector, I’d run my assessing hands Over a few glittering Sicilian knights And fearsome, “swart-skinned” Saracens— Once my avid puppeteer Literally hauled me upstairs, let me Unbutton his linen shirt and unbraid His gleaming black hair, Then nimbly blindfolded me—with a blue, Hand-sewn scarf from Cefalù— To let me savor more fully Our unleashed bodies’ veneer Of sweat and midsummer musk— Volume 8 No 1 - Page 31

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