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.
2 comments:
One of your best, I found it very evocative, suggestive of things just beyond knowing, yet redolent of much that is well known and loved. There are many fine lines and passages for a poem of this length. High among them, this:
Then the sirens’ sounds, no, not mermaids’, although
there’s a final touch of new notes lately,
This really brings alive to me the sense of a city living on the water
Post a Comment