A man on a bicycle, a huge fish hanging out of his
basket,
pedals up the steep, narrow street wearing black oilskins,
his face and hands pinker than exertion should make them
-- a fresco
in motion.
At the church on the hill, a young brother comes
yawning
onto the red stoop, unbolts the doors, hangs out the poor
box.
Behind him, the Latin prayers shiver in air that seems
spacious
and clean.
The smoke curls like faint, blue hair.
When the tourists
come -- for a price,
for a moment -- they will be allowed to see.
Outside, the heat -- threat of cholera -- flies thick
as eyebrows
or scum on the Grand Canal; thick as beggar women scowling
under their black shawls, each demanding her cut
of the action.
Deep in their palace, the Doges glide
among the tapestries.
As if on wheels, they go about
their ancient business.
Handbags filled with postcards, lace and Venetian
glass,
the Germans the French, the Americans, the Japanese
and their
cameras cluster on the piazza
-- pigeons colored and rising --
And the gondolas, graceful as death;
the incredible
young men, their tight pants stuffed
with lire, serenading the sleek
boats home
through waters thick with desire.
In the dark church, an old woman tells her beads,
fingers the virgin's robes, slips a coin into the purse
on the outstretched
plaster hand. "Mary, you're so beautiful.
You've got to listen --"
A child whines, "Io fame. I'm hungry,"
and
the man on the bicycle coasts downhill,
his slicker tails flapping.
Now, silence. The absence of even human sound:
An
empty pocket. Footsteps in the distance.
The click of a door closing.
first published: Images Poets at the Kent Canterbury
Faire (NWR 1990)
