Just heard Beethoven’s Romance For Violin and Orchestra No. 2 in F major, Opus 50, and my thoughts drift to a music memory when on a sultry late-summer afternoon in a wide grassy field next to a meandering green water river and the two of us on a blanket the color of her eyes and I pull the bottle of Clairette de Die from the cold river water and the wine is crisp and good and cools and I think of the Geometry of a Kiss and have a bit more Brie de Meaux on a slice of peasant bread and look at her and know that the solution is always the solution and see the rise of her breasts under the cotton sundress and her tanned legs and I wonder when this will all end.
And I read her Keats.
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