JIM IN ITALY

Jim found himself in the possessive thick-set yellow fog that comes in from the bay. He rubbed the scar on his back, the one that he’ll get when he was pushed through a window today. * *The fog is like yellow smoke. He sat on the bench and rubs his dog’s muzzle. Or is it his?

The dog licks its tongue as the evening lingered like an endless game of pool. Drained of all sense, diving into insurmountability, Jim thought about, and, if this seems like a leap, well so be it.

It was an October night. A sawdust night. The chainlink of this nearby terrace howled incipherably, like the west wind of his house’s curlicued memory. The yellow fog photographed this detour, memorized by a smoke-dream that was the fog like yellow smoke. Jim found himself in the possessive thick-set yellow fog that comes in from the bay. He rubbed the scar on his back, the one that he’ll get when he was pushed through a window today. * *The fog is like yellow smoke. He sat on the bench and rubs his dog’s muzzle. Or is it his?

The dog licks its tongue as the evening lingered like an endless game of pool. Drained of all sense, diving into insurmountability, Jim thought about, and, if this seems like a leap, well so be it.

It was an October night. A sawdust night. The chainlink of this nearby terrace howled incipherably, like the west wind of his house’s curlicued memory. The yellow fog photographed this detour, memorized by a smoke-dream that was the fog like yellow smoke.

Jim then remembered the summer he was in Italy. He had just come back from dinner and it was a warm summer night, a fine night for a stroll, down to the lake, the blue misty breeze rising from the water.