I weep over the photograph I took.
Outside Carluccio's. She still has hair
though it is thinning. wisping. Her fierce look
into the lense; her sense that it's not fair
that this is happening. The cruel light
that shows the subtle wasting of her neck.
Her wrists are thinner too. Her skin is white
that once was tanned. Death is the gentle wreck
Of beauty; in its slow relentless game
with medicine, we ebb out like the sea.
We ate salami, olives, bread - the same
meal we eat constantly in memory
young and in Venice. Photos, food and tears,
ways of ignoring death, and loss, and years.