the stillness of the water as we
run down the spaces in between,
an urge to clean up all remembrance of joy,
tiny skies lying on the hot bathroom floor:

breathe and count, serenissima,
the light is dying on us.

where the telling meets the image
as in here and now
there are no white lies
adding up to a perfectly full zero.

no dirt in the words dragged and dropped
just in case we should fail to connect.
no pipes only steam and
a superb anticipation of fear:

breathe, serenissima, we are not to
stare at the hole during the slip.