A CONTINUING CITY
A millennium of trade and empire
has pushed the wooden piles the founders drove
more deeply into the seditious silt
than they had intended.
In Campo di Ghetto, ‘Juda Merda’
is daubed: on Fondamente Nouve,
grammatically correct, ‘Venezia
truffa i touristi.’
On San Michele lie Ezra Pound, the
Stravinskys, somebody from Salop and
Venetian bourgeoisie almost safe in
their ferrara chambers.
Before dawn, carts spouting disinfectant
are trundled hastily through shuttered streets –
which, later, are pristine with human sounds:
laughter, footfalls, a song.