There are repairs to be made
in the smell of the underground hallway

          a bird     hologram
          a struck match

So much flickers here
in the chase lead letters sit heavy

& I wait

Something tastes like licorice,
an old man sitting on an old wall near the sea

and sewage waiting
          saturation comes early in the morning

One day it will be July again and I will wake up
in Venice where nothing     apparates correctly

printshop waiting

and my body flickering between the Saints
the razor scraper flying over sheets

          lumberyards
          the dream of saltwater

All subterranean, all hushing
aluminum, shadows of blue boats

the year rushing rishing forward to meet me, over and over