Via Delle Cascine

Like deer caught in headlights
the young whores on
Via delle Cascine
turn. Their eyes flash
the white of small pressed
flowers. Their breasts push
upward into the mouth
of streetlights
as each new car slows
almost to a stop.

With fire still burning
three millimeters
hot above her hemline,
where the man in
the Peugeot
has just pulled out,
she walks quickly,
panties in hand,
to the next car.

Her bare ass
like the exposed face
of a young sleeping child
catches our headlights
before dropping down
into the darkness
of a bucket seat.

Across the bridge
the white Firenze moon
handstrokes
the genitals of
Chianti grapevines:

Blessed Salvadonica,
whose hills soak
in milk of spilled moonlight,
whose luna lace drapes
each dirt mound
like the twice washed
stockings of a
seventeen year old puttano.

“Quanto?” “Quanto?” sinks
its nails into the place
where the Ponte Vecchio
stretches fingers deep
into the Arno;
where the moon always
sleeps with its favorite
whore gartered
by rivers
the color of bruised
sky.

“Quanto?”, “How much?”
Each girl like a statue
the Medici have commissioned,
Glass eyed virgins carved
with boots to their thighs,
turns and looks,
then bends down,
All along Cascine Park
where Donatello knelt
each daybreak to
pray.