Wednesday, April 9, 2008

Wednesday, April 9, 2008

Wednesday, April 9, 2008. When you choke it sounds like a laugh. This is your morning wake-up call.

(A boat rocks shaking up the view across the water.)
There are just as many taxis as there are gondolas in Venice. Just none as romantic. The floors are metal and you share your view of the fog-filled horizon with old women wrapped in scarves and travellers, bags surrounding them. They get knocked by the waves fighting against the handlers. Their forearms tighten at the strain of the rope that they loop on the dock, wrangling a steer. They take months getting accustomed to the water, the tiny miles of street, knowing all in their skin. The longer stayed the further out they can go and still feel the rhythm in the waves, the pressure against the docks. They make them move in strides. Some mornings I can feel them. Wake up.

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