Hanging In A Jar

Venice: Nights of Madonna blue, the tail end of a shawl moving away into the darkness, a certain nothing. I think of the water's edge - how the dense fog felt like the end of time but was the beginning: the caigo an embrace.   I will miss the witches' brooms, the metallic clunk of the binmen, the warm glow melting like honey from morning shop windows onto the dark, cold Autumn calli. The old man who sings as he pedals through San Tomà, the alsatian in his 5pm booties, Giorgio on the steps of the church at San Lio: a plastic bucket on his head. The incredulity of the 7am ombre, the vampiric kiss of the cocal, the tiny skeletons running through Halloween darkness of Campo Santa Margherita, whooping with joy. "Singing" the songs of Curva Sud as if dubbed by a toddler, but Ascolani only have olives. Remembering a shroud of fog concealing delinquents on the water. The swifts darting and dancing against the bright blue sky, the cormorants crucified as the sun sets over the ...