though you are no longer living in
my small room with
the blue kitchenette,
or singing on the balcony
with the speckled, moth-eaten ferns.
I couldn’t help being unamused.
Pulling a face.
Sticking my tongue out
to the cold river, to you.
We talked about heads turning into tails,
and my mother’s silverware jumping out of
their drawer and marrying her jewelry.
I remember, I sing,
I wind a hook as you wade through
but are always swept away by
the passing of a foreign boat.
Because of that,
because we fought on the staircase,
looted for candy and green marbles,
because you and I were only you and I,
you will always live on Murano,
cocooned in orange glass.