Au Voyage




She left me in style. Absconded in the night.
Hopped into a gondola—I mean the kind
hot-air balloons have (but this was in Venice)—


flourished a knife and cut the mooring ropes.
She touched her Gauloise to the pilot light
and bailed her dress out, barely rising in time.


I ran up panting, shouting: “Lunch tomorrow?”
She blew a kiss. “You’ve got to be realistic.”
I watched her float away, nude over the roofs,


and felt the city sink another inch.




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