I walked in bloom through the calli of Venice. And the stagnant air would settle on my hair.
A coffee at the edge of a canal put that bitter taste
in my mouth, a typical sign of suspended cities.
Your mini-bag resting on the pile of notes you always forget.
The city is up on fragile balances, and you can almost see yourself.
In your ribbed sweater and unmade bed as you wait to get off
to catch that Vaporetto you keep missing at the end.
Reflections of water dance when the tide changes, a slow dance for two
takes place in attic lofts, where lovers shelter from the high water.
From Marni Balaclava to a bed, and a wet kiss
between naked skin and pastel-colored brushed sweaters.
When you finally arrive at your favorite bacaro, with that breezing in you.
You are wearing your best dress which
remember you a walk that make feel bodiless.