(For Narciso Bressanello)
A paper scrap fell from the shelf
I traced a line beyond myself
The line keeps pulling out
My fingers moved, the line took shape
A boat, a goblin, mouth agape
The line keeps pulling out
A whisper came on salted air
The saints and shoals were speaking there
The line keeps pulling out
A child ran past with ragged lace
The lion mask slipped from his face
The line keeps pulling tight
The bucintoro split the light
Brought ancient craftsmen into sight
The line keeps pulling down
My father’s hand, my mother’s thread
Returned to draw what once was said
The line keeps pulling down
A band of hooks like battlements
Thorn-like edging, ornaments
The line keeps pulling down
Christ sat quiet at every meal
The wounded guest who comes to heal
The line keeps pulling in
The line keeps pulling in
