1
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.
2
Footfalls
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.