For Dante

Evening –
hopscotch-clouded sky –
have we not somewhere to be?
I’ll play at being Beatrice –
lovely Beatrice! –
for a time.

Tell me,
(gently, incidentally)
why you offered me your sweets.
Your scholarly demeanour
charms me –
but I like your puppy
moods
best.

Roman-wrapped,
spectacled,
smile –
(yes, even when you dream of
Pliny)

I think I’d like to be your patron saint –
if, in my absence,
you feel pearl-robbed
too.