I’ve come from my ” Salasso” hour today .
The needle searched and found the red, red blood.
But what has this to do , is my dismay,
With pyroclastic, heavy tephra , say ?
Sonnets about volcanoes versus writing
About too much of iron in my veins ?
Vesuvio’s a fiery, red-hot , fightin’
Mountain out to burn my aches and pains.
That needle sucked it out, my ferretin,
My vital , sanguine, life-juice, good and mean.
But yet my thoughts were focused on my death
By Etna’s enormous heat and pent-up power.
The saline fluid sang , but I could cower
Glad my roasting hour had not come yet.