canal time is a life line
to those that live in boats.
The puttering motor erodes
sodden brickwork; a man
stripped and hatted; poles past
cutting out across the wash.
A paint, like wine, matures;
what once was a proud crimson
is now bled and faded
to a hundred grubby pinks.
Damp, rising from the streets
has made a jigsaw puzzle
above the boat house door,
removing random pieces
to fall and silt the shallow bottom
while all Venice floats past

02/13/2011

Author's Note: From Venice

Posted on 02/13/2011
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