An essay on Venice
I read Brodsky’s book
many years after my visit.
Asterisked so many passages, like
every surface craves dust,
for dust is the flesh of time.
or
love comes with the speed of light;
separation, with that of sound.
I was 56, almost the age he died
observed what he saw, but
his life, his history and exiles
channelled him deeper
through its fabric,
to sink, safe in the refuge
of a city built on mud,
eventually to be buried on
the greatest masterpiece our species produced
He’ll rest eternal
on the smaller cemetery island, unless
acqua alta muds his remains.
I will read it again, then.
Dry him out, dust him off,
and let his prose
touch the surface again.
