Morning in Venice
The morning splits open
ripe with espresso and oranges.
Wind snatches at my hair,
plays a fandango
on the mirrored hem
of my Indian skirt.
The beggar, dressed in holy robes
leans on the whitewashed wall.
He leads me down
meandering alleyways
under Venetian sky calm
I push through the landscape,
the moon
arcs over the canal,
before it's swallowed
by the golden luminosity of day.
I hum an anthem of joy
for the disappearance
of ash and bone,
nettle and locks,
flung
from my slim bag
of yesterday's sorrow.
