Venezia Aubade

Italian skies

serenade me through the open window,

attempting to stitch me up,

to which I


I gaze out down below them.

Brick terraces tower

over weaving paths that

snake through the intricate maze

that is San Marco.

The cobble on the floors

reaches out its cold, stone fingers

in longing for the azure dome above.

Not a cloud can be seen,

nor a plane,

nor a star.

We all rest on the brink of day,

not quite asleep and

not quite awake.