-/-/-/-/-/-/

she took me to a wine bar/ she was sweet and
like a mother
/Manuela served me whiskey/ asked “Is he staying here?”
Manuela it would be so nice
to hear you say “December”
/my fingers smelt of basil,
/the road to the farm we’d paved
into a wild mosaic
/un’altra cosa
whiskey is like other people’s amazement
surprising your blood, like sweat or
under the stars with no jacket/ headlights
plunge into such a deep hallway
on the plateaus/ of these hills made of branches