The Fontana di Trevi is waiting for
the shower of your desires,
and if you really mean it,
your dreams will coalesce.
But do you know your mind? Once I did,
and now the rain is ever falling, threading
through my hollow bones, searching for its sea.
With dreams of strangers sleeping close,
too very close, whispering and laughing,
a night can leave you restless,
seeking wrongness in the clouds,
missing quiet valleys and phantom silhouettes.
So I cast a wish upon the Constellation
of the Hare, and solitude was granted me.
Across the bay, the gusting wind has fizzed the water,
churned it to a difficult green, and there’s a phase change
in the air. I recognize the layered dust—
alluvial stratocumulus, an agricultural keepsake.
Twenty-two years gone,
I sleep in stranger’s beds,
I accommodate their homes
with occasional refurbishing,
and I haven’t seen a soul.
My existence is consecutive,
I do not dwell or idle, nor seek reciprocation,
and my sleep is dreamless tatters.
I would tell you more, but I must
prepare my dinner, and while I squint at
labels faded long ago, I leave you
with a wind-up fish box.
In the joyous years, the aerial rabbit
waited on the television, a rose red salmon cloud
led an importune existence with
a crystal bathtub time machine, and