-- For Arlene Ang
I see you in my mind's eye
sweeping Venetian backstreets
with your full-length purple coat,
too slender to be a gypsy,
a different fire in your eyes.
You walk lanes into existence
with random steps; behind you,
they promptly contemplate coiling up.
You don't strew breadcrumbs,
you never walk the same street twice.
In the corners of dusty piazzas,
words flock to you like pigeons
as you reach out to them, promising
a happy life in all the great places.
Sometimes in dreams
I watch you wringing their necks,
twisting them into every shape
your cruel muse demands.