Paul Violi
When To Slap a Woman


When loose-strife, in flower, line
one bank with ages of purple candles,

and grape vines hide the tall trees
on the other, leaves dipped into the water,

motionless, shallow, and clear...
the pebbled bed curved and ridged,

colors folded by the imperceptible flow;
when, in the middle of all this, here

in the wide bend of the stream,
under such stillness it seems every

thing is finally where it wants to be,
all bafflement and loveliness; the still air

white, or blue above the haze, the same
gentle blue of windows scattered star-like

in a skyline whose edge is lost in the night;
when, high above the dull and humid street

on cumulus sheets as fresh and cool
and welcome as the scent of rain,

or even at night above the incinerator's
pall when you lick your fingertips

to snuff a candle and then pinch the flame
as you would choose any flower to toss

on the black couch; the clothes and coins
spilled across the rug in a tide line,

coins cool under bare feet in the dark,
cool your thighs, a silver wish to mine,

when shadows and shadowy lights streak
the windows and floor, and sadness, like

the moon this time, can come near enough
to feel but not close enough to touch.