I gave her my Italian jeans, too

the ones I got in Florence

she wears them better, anyhow

of course

so I gave them to her.

Curving and tapering where mine

inelegantly hung, inappropriately bulged

(and I could never find the right shoes).

See, she manifests all that Italy 

was to me then,

all that Italy promised me

or wanted to promise me. As I

senses deranged, appetite whet,

at loose ends with myself and desire,

was losing a war fought with full lips 

and fierce beauty. 

The Body.

Yes,

she is all that Italy promised

a temple, a flower, an endless banquet.