nine stories, but no bodies, grace
center-facing balconies. empty
tables and extinguished candles
bathe in flood lights. ascending
gardens of hanging ivy, dark and thick,
sag like tired eyes. i sit in a wrought
iron chair outside restuarante
panevino, my shirt cuffs unbuttoned,
tie loosened. glancing inside i see the
bartender cleaning a glass. he finishes,
looks up at me, then at his watch.
i lean back and bite a fingernail.
