Rhyming sestina for Venice!
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I have never known you in this city; you are untouched in Venice
body unburied beneath my fingerprints, I’ve not mapped you through these maps,
canals and streets entwine in my minds vision.
Hotel Rialto, river side view of the cruises and cathedrals, chants
That deepen the air, city all quartered up like a cake into six slices
Motor boats the new taxis down theGreatCanal’s liquid road
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Valentine’s Day the busiest of the year, gliding reflections sold
Boats balance; hieroglyphics form, your face flowers. The waiters all pensive
The wine bottles sweat, their buckets slender as arms, iced,
Dressed up to the nines, the city clothed in its brightest, a sapling
Grown to heady heights, its branches rivers, the sea a bank
Girding the city. You are I are somewhere kissing
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Near a funnel of light that drips like a watercolour’s vision
OfVenice. All bridges and couples, exchanging looks like a code
In their own personal language. Museums and artists plant
Portraits in our heads, I take your likeness, against a backdrop of menace
The poverty streets hint at, stray cats, pigeons amassed
Plentiful as gondolas, the lopsided S of your name slices
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Through the map ofVenice, where boats prey on tourists- entices
Them to camera these scenes of soft light their transmission
Of evidence of romance beams through the laptop, trapped
Behind time and place and screen. We are weighed down, loaded
With whatVeniceis before we’ve seen it, serving penance
For who we said we were before we knew, our childish rants
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Our adult banter.Venicesmells strange in summer, decant
The perfume of littered streets into bottles, retain, apply when ripe
To just below my ear lobe, your breath ghosts, slightly alcoholic
Then acqua alta come winter, the tide of our kissing
Rises on the sidewalks, beneath stone lions and eroded
Buildings, crumbling wings, lost flight, receding back.
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‘must I hold a candle to my shames?’, where Shakespeare sat,
ancient Renaissance running deep beneath reflections glib slants
our snapshots transporting us when we are home, water bus abode
and our feet still aching from the city streets, our weary slide
from water to land. The skyline a broken image hidden
somewhere in our thoughts of Venice, a resurrecting séance
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where we chant our anecdotes, our high water maps, flooded
with visions of you and brick all green and gold, lost feet
down roads still pattering through our spliced up sunsets, the view from bridges.