Razors and Canals



Dawn percolates into storm.


The concrete fishing pier

a straight-razor

edge up,


ready to shave time

or cut me in two.


I pass homeless people

quieter than the fish

for whom Mexicans and Asians

put out lines I pass


in hope


to snag my aloneness in the roiling jade—

your voice’s anxious breakers,

eyes this sea—

before I detour off the main drag


seeing you’re not here.






whispers the mornings 

air sleeps on wooden bridges.


Side canals glint—black mirrors.

A tread where tree and paper

overstretch plank and nail.


Nothing hammered stays home.


Above snowy egrets

doubts hide on a ponte reticolo,

brush my tongue

yet subside,

swim into fog and quietness—


somewhere I belong.