She arrives and scents the air With the Winter’s brazen draft, Cheeks of ardent crimson glare, Perfume rank, visage inapt, Vocals ringing utter nonsense, In a manner most obtuse To my work, when all the sudden, In a fit of clumsy rummage From her purse unfurls a loose Crumpled literary journal. I began to feel unsoundly Cramped in my immense apartment, Which all seemed aloof and awkward, When she suddenly entreated That I read “Macbeth” aloud. Hardly reached the earthly bubbles, Which I can’t discuss without Worry … Though she too, uneasy, Glance fixated out the window, ‘Cross the baleful alley rooftop, Where a motley cat, espying Kissing pigeons, lurked there, prying. What most angered me was this: It was the doves, not us, that kiss. Long be gone, l'età burlesca, L'età di Paulo e Francesca