So many American girls
sunsets, ashes
and my sunburned thights.
I could sail all afternooon
on my motorcycle and on,
straight into the Agean.
I’d sleep in the
cradle of the volcano and be its
big, smoldering heart. They said
Vulcan lived under Mt. Etna,
bury Tom Wiltzius under
the caldera and I’ll beat
and bleed for two or three
centuries at least, stoke the
first of this bleached island,
keep those American girls
warm with my cinder,
blush and sunshine.
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