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Creative Commons License

This work is licensed
under a Creative Commons
4.0 International License

Postmodern Village
est. 1999
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Cure White: Reflections on Venice
by Hezekiah Allen Taylor

for Crispin

I want to spend days with you in Venice:
holding palm to palm,
talking and not talking---

there's so much music in silence sometimes---

kissing against an ancient, cobble-stoned wall
of pure romantic confection.

at least one full day
we must stay twisted together
in the sun-warmed sheets,
the heavy windows open
to let in the scented salt air.


this is not really me.

I'm the girl who loves Casablanca
for the dialogue, not for Paris.

I explored Rome once,
touching the heavy rock walls
where lions once devoured.
I easily walked past the red roses at Trevi.

it was so simple to push them off
with a look that says "I'll eat you, if you try that."


but then: you.
and now: well, shit.


here in Tulsa, it's 5:47 a.m.
and cold
and I cannot sleep.

so, I think about you.

I listen to the wind tumble down the fireplace,
whistling through the uncapped stones.

otherwise, it is quiet.
I should be meditating on the Buddha,
on the day ahead,
on just how to extract your essence
from its snuggled-down spot
inside every single atom of me.

I know better though.
you're fused---
ever since that nuclear reaction,
that bubbling nova,
that creation of a new sun

ever since I knew of you.


I watch the light from the stove hood.
I use it for a nightlight so I don't bang shins.

I am a practical girl,
outside of you.

the light splits in two
as it angles a corner---

first a light, shadowed triangle,
then a darker one.
the distinction so very separate at the beginning
but indistinguishable as the light moves off
into the darkness of the room.


they talk about the light in certain places:
the light in Paris,
the light in Rome,
the light in Venice.

I understand now.
that light---it's you.


I've been to Venice before,
I roamed the alleyways.
I walked the water.

yet, it never sat well on me---
the light too soft, too subtle.
I prefer a sharp, clean fit.

that romantic notion,
with its empty pockets
and old, frayed collar,

I easily discarded it.

I did not realize then---
though I realize it now---
that I was simply missing you.

Francine's Version -- Hezekiah's Version
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