Black Venice

Observing imagined gondolas on canals through my bluegreen memory along with my own movements in reflection, unnecessary

The rats are real, at least

The romance of far-off water cities is lost on me, and the intricacy of companionship is mentioned far too little when the robin’s egg walls berode cigarette smoke and coffee

Rifles on the stoop Nature in the shag

between sleeping and waking, the viscerally pleasant scent of washing denim for working

Give the rain purpose and rut the soil for a season

Broken week of fever’d bedsickness with a drink of the brittled well’s tenacity Riddling with clay turns bounty to impressionably fickle reality

Earth curves away too soon the tilled horizon and the ill-grated gravel upon which so many have tried to outrun death’s Sunday morning apparition

A little of everything e v e r y t h i n g l i t t l e

Happiness is a full tank of gasoline a new pack of cigarettes a roof for your history where it’s admirable to compartmentalize and discipline one’s identity (maybe it is)