A sun-searched blood orange
lies shattered on a tabletop.
One month of sleepless mornings,
unopened guide books, radiator
bangs, and brick-dust flavors.
We spiderweb our sketchbooks
with patterns of foot traffic,
rings of city walls like tidelines.
We jot half-formed narratives
into knots of black pen scribble.
We draw every doorway as a gulf
and every loggia as a bone bridge.
Birdcaged tower tops double
as scenic overlooks, plazas as
early morning finish lines.
The cold shrinks our bodies
drum-tight as the race is on
between slivers of daylight.
Winter rains dissolve Tuscany.
Toffee froth, the bite and slap
of mudwater against timber,
everything old shouts its rot.
We catch sermons in palmfuls of sea
salt and in bags of blood oranges.
Up against the backsplash, green glass
empties an offering of our last words.