One doesn't have to go to Budapest
to see eyes turning old in moonlight,
while a fiddle makes a cat dance.
The sound of river water in morning,
where it rolls impossible miles away
and sends the odor of night to nostrils,
comes free on the air of special idleness.
Wine poured into Provençal glasses
can be tasted on wandering lips --
flavors mingle like half-real flowers.
If a warmth of summer light falls
and touches the skin of a scholar
who has literature on her tongue,
it is something made for larceny --
that light then kept in a clear phial
and warmth held on thieving palms.
Copyright 2011 -- Tim Buck