Lady Venice

Tonight, I have come to lie in her arms.
It is not the melancholy of her beauty
Or the rèmo'd slow-brush of ripples
That make this city heart-breaking.
Our reflections swell as they take us in.

Yet, how are we to claim possession
Of our own existence as the mirrors
Of her canal fold beneath us,
And buildings sink where they stand?
We succumb to the archipelago's chagrin.

Transient sailor, Serenissima, Holy Lady:
Something in the way your daydream
Makes an auster of the breeze
Sends our thoughts to the artesian well
And paints you a widow, or a widow's daughter.

So. Since she is only touched by death,
I will etch my name here in limestone
On a San Michele sideboard tomb
And submerge in the inevitable flood.
Tonight, I have come to lie in her arms.