sangria wine

who'd remember you she'd say to me
the frescos riven with blue wounds
a new angst to paint the rose that is a rose
your song in subtle colors falls
from these thorns the houris of my patience
who do not exist they'll know my name

Tone poem from the mid 1970s. Clearly based on a painting, I am guessing Caravaggio, who I had a small trip in about then. It doesn't matter; just another serve in that conversational tennis match with that girl.