vignette

blood spilled blackens

after a while

the way the light

of the sky blackens

with time.

crossing the street

with a purpose to nab

an italian

bread for supper

hot from the

baker's ovens

crust cracking under

the sheath of a bag.

walking home is easy

with this

italian beauty

tucked in my arms

a Monica Vitti

look-alike,–– blonde

and warm and soft

and smelling

like Vitti would smell

if Vitti was a hot

italian bread.