i am sweating, & have been since
france. the fabric pressed
against my lower back is damp, but unnoticed
among the small unnoticings
of strangers photographing the light of venice as it slips
into the river. i feel up
walls just to touch
some kind of skin, & i’m lost again, leaking
around corners & trying not to ache
for my own home’s small evening
glow. i suppose this
is what people write postcards about, wish you
were here, & here i am, pushing
pen into paper so hard
it cuts through. lately i float on trains,
float across cobble stone, i float
into museums alone, & fail to find
another word for float. groundless, even
in my own mouth, so balancing
on this city’s teeth is damn near
impossible, but at a yellow
walled restaurant, i eat spaghetti, calamari,
mussels like little hearts, as my own
opens, closes, drifts towards
wheat fields & a boy
despite this low-slung sun. it fills
the cracks in these small halls. i should hold this
better or give it to someone
who could. it’s embarrassing
to miss anything
as much as i miss him
& the small way we drink coffee
together—foam in his beard & i brush it out.
venice now,
& my ankles wobble guilty
on streets i don’t want
to keep, & i love him like not everything is lost,
i love him
like a map’s clear you are
here in red, right where it’s supposed to be.