there is, however, Leo
and it astonishes me
being solidly alive,
bread on the table, dreams.
Understand that Leo isn’t Perseus.

I see American movies,
then I whistle, Baby Leo.
Atta Baby, Leo.
Understand that I am worshipful.
At a window, even at a window.

Leo sighs.
Leo buys a car.
Then he buys a dog.

Leo, call the dog Umberto Eco.

My head is full of forms:
lilac, swan, milk
of the body, kingdom of
avocado, worthy pilgrims, 
for example: my ten toes.

It was Good Friday.
It was the Resurrection.
It was the Medicis
eating every bit of Florence.
Little children, tether your velvet horses!

Hello, disappearing Leo,
only slowly, slowly.
 

Copyright © 1999 by Caroline Finkelstein