petrarch chased laura over the woods-road, feet trapping on roots grown into the way, sunlight filtered to green and umber above and the road itself below of old and swollen flagstone, the moss gathering between stone-breaks flowering in flakes of white. the air in his mouth tasted sweeter than other air. he heard her laugh as he pushed back curtains of hanging lichens and found himself at the abbey. she was leaning against the stones of the ruined gate, in red, smiling, her long black hair in a thick knot at the nape of her neck and as he walked up to her she disappeared naturally.
but he knew what to do: dropped to his knees because it had happened this way countless times and licked the pavement where she had stood. swallowed. and the sounds of her loveliness came in strands from his throat. he gathered them and bound them around his wrists. and he couched back on his heels and imagined satyrs and clerics come to him and mark the moment, bless his devotion as a beautiful process...
but in his mind there was a tree being smothered by its own shadow. and when he woke with moonlight stretched across his face, he stood and looked out into the hot night and knew
that with or without her he still was dreaming
and the moonlight stretched like a hand over venice.