Laura, today I sought you in streets while the rain was carried in the wind.
Some weeks ago I almost baptized a cat in your honor
but I decided not to let the world know your name.
I am never brave enough to speak of your lips or eyes,
or your hair (grey as wolves would be if we had not killed the wolves),
and somewhere you are grinning when I cower at your gaze.
Today I was playing at a matador with onrushing headlights,
taking all the time that was necessary in order
to understand Petrarch: there are many indisputable reasons
one must never write about a woman unless she is already dead.
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