Saturday, June 16, 2007

Il gastronomo




He’ll be hovering over them, gazing into those
Tuscan cauldrons by now. No mere affairs of the mouth,
these, more slicing time with the gods
at the altar of the garlic-dressed bean.

A flourish of fennel, a dash of James Baldwin,
a kiss of balsamic, a twist of life,
patience cajoling magic deadly deep
within the eighth liberal art.

A week later he flies home, leaving behind
a seasoned wedge of his soul. In Cleveland,
Chianti sales triple as they queue for him,
for his mouthfuls of heaven.
(Firenze, giugno 2007)

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