My love for you is hysterical and skittish.

It leaves you confused, you say. I want to coat your lips

with honey, but just a bit. You call me

your tart au miel. I’ll be your tart any day.

Let’s go you say, nodding toward the church.

We ride bicycles, hide them in the back by the graveyard.

Our destination, the bell-tower.

We enter reverently, bow before altar, take of

the holy water, cross ourselves, you more than I because you need it.

And we cross the path through the library to the tower.

You secure the door behind us, double bolt the lock,

Halfway up the stairs, you kiss me by the stained glass window,

careless, uncaring who could or might see such shadows.

We stay like this, you against me, as you lick the summer salt of my skin

while I sigh while I sigh while I sigh.

I shiver to such pure and holy ecstasies.

On this July day, it is humid and the grey sky threatens imminent storm.

Outside, the gentle Italians – those lithe summer bees –

have built a hive beneath the eaves.

Their buzzing becomes the soundtrack to our summer.