A fat, orange morning, punctured
by cloves pressed into skin.
A morning frost, blue
in the waking daylight.
Whiskers fall to a tepid pool and are rinsed,
circle the drain, disappear.
The brass hook hangs loose, one screw
spinning in its hole, my heavy coat droops.
There is nothing in Prague, I decide,
nor hidden in Treviso’s ancient canals,
that cannot be read in the blanket of crystal moss
covering the stone effigy, inscribed below angel wings.