After my third beer,
smoke rings all around
a long-haired sculptor,
complains about the golden shadows of women.

Rivers of talk foam and creep
around this glassy shore,
flow in golden drops
on this dirty table.

There are certain voices I remember.
A torso lean as an orchard in spring
with smells of humid darkness,
sticky blood of pines,
every man’s home,
bodies of desirable women.

That woman standing in the window
swaying in the foam of my bitter beer:
Aphrodite of the tavern.

Has it already come back?
: the warm words
: the bitter beer
: the rough lines of that horrible body?