The Venetian Hours

Time wanes slowly down through the
lens of your dripping autumn eyes, so
sere in its vision of a dread sublime
rocketing through and into you. I
try to think, unfurling a knot of rank
horsehair in my hands, but it cannot
come undone. You dip your toe gently
in the water.
I spread the
knot about my
head like a mane
the blood dissipates
into the shape
of a spider.
We sat shivering alone in those
empty days by the canal water
too cold to dip in, the holes in the
gondola bailed out until dry by our
cracked, caked, crumbling hands.