BLIZZARD

Flake. Flaked.
Float.
Followed by another,
whimpering cascade.
Skies turned to chalk.
Melt. Melting.
Slush.
Slippery beneath my shoes.
Sleet. Sheet.

Barometer falling.
Temperature plunging
hard drizzle pelt,
frigid caramel stick
biting into apple cheeks.

Sweaty brow,
matted hair,
drippy scarf,
tired feet.

Cold. Crackling.
Wind gusts.
Heavy shovel.
Silly, soggy, sullen.

Dig. Dug.
Down to the pavement.
Blow. Blown.
Blast.
Ah, hell,
has frozen over!
Tick. Tick.
Toc.
Time to fetch,
another cup of cocoa.

@Nick Zegarac 2006 (all rights reserved).

THE CANALS OF VENICE

In narrow slits,
wind the canals of Venice,
their cavernous air recoiling
thickened assassinations
on a million rare spices
swept under loose-rimsy paddles -
my swarthy gondolier.

Who navigates the tenderloin
of eclipsed youth -
sucked beneath the vibrant maelstrom
in cultured threads,
the sauce and soup of rusted private lives,
fishing in vane
for that postcard Italy-
half told above the watermark.
But to mingle - at length
under blue-veiled arteries
by corrupted moonlit
drains these obscurities of time.
The cracklin’ flicker by candlelight
casts appalling shadow-dances
into each halfway lit modest courtyard,
where Valentino once discovered
his sudden whores
transformed to Rivoli sprites
most wondrous - enraptured
Toscanini screams -
the peril of their pear-shaped magic-love tones
mostly buried now,
teased under beautiful sewers -
this waterlogged paradise. @Nick Zegarac 2006 (all rights reserved).