Cardinale Frucci covets snow.

A purple wing of cloak , pigeons
the insistant cooing of his slender
frame, the velvet mules like frosty
cherries, stain with little sinful steps.
He covets snow, ostia sweet and chill
as convent cloisters, a melting flakery.
Look. That galero, heady claret, dilutes
a purity of air, shades the purpose of his eyes.
Each distant cleft and cleavage tempts him
further on. How mountains deceive with
eternal unattainability, how wolves prowl
his heart, their footprints mark in virgin snow.
He waits for a miracle of ice.