On an elevated plateau of rock above the Mediterranean,
I caught a glimpse of your physique
I scrutinized your godly proportions,
you were Italian or French, tall,
with jet-black, drenched hair,
like oil undulating,
long enough to be tucked behind your ears.
c’etait une plage naturiste.
You were fresh out of the deep blue,
It was frigid from the mistral winds of Marseilles
But you were still semi-erect
A serious force in white
Reading a book called Surface,
about the ocean’s mass,
or just its top layer.
The whole scene was Dolce and Gabanna Light Blue,
the one shot in Sicily with David
that’s what my lover Vincenzo from Syracuse said.
I returned on Sunday,
This time with a female friend,
I was not a naturist,
But it was another French man,
Who smirked at me with his older, plastic companion,
He had two feet, four toes each.
I wondered how the missing toe might be your special power
Maybe you were a dolphin and swam away.