Sirocco. That is after all Venice’s breath,
that’s her, that vast belly underneath swelling
and surging, close to our belly.
It is dangerous and known and dirty,
it embroils our soul.
Feel the gusts, they are low, you sense
an exhaling at your legs’ height
like eyes rising from the stones
and pushing you on.
Then the sirens’ sounds, no, not mermaids’, although
there’s a final touch of new notes lately,
a reverberating mellow trembling,
then you sense the city’s lap lapping and swelling
and waters keen on filling the gaps.
And plasters and bricks gnawed
by huge tongues churned out of
the perspiration of the deserts.
You slosh your way, your life
along the walls, while the city’s heart
stares and floats.
And asks you
to keep floating too.