Venice
Tonight in Venice my past life
hangs on a clothesline
Suspended between a pink and a rose house.
On the clothesline I watched past events
from my life flap in the wind.
The events have sounds, converse in English;
Italians walk under without ever looking up.
In one of my glances I saw white dogwoods
Blooming behind her white gold hair.
I looked again, the past no longer flapping,
But quivering in a mild breeze
Strange, these clothes hanging on the line,
For none of the clothes had ever been washed.
Duane Locke
Posted over on DeepSouth
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