Opening Ruskin’s
The Stones of Venice
calls up that palatial city
still in my heart.
The weight of six hundred years
sinks it deeper by the day,
as the sea invades each alley
with the songs of gondoliers,
laps the palace steps,
strokes the worn foundations,
breaks the will of stones.
It rots marble pavement,
bends Giotto’s perfect halos.
Gold leaf peels
too late to save.
Venetians latch their rusting windows,
move to upper floors.
On church domes, gray pigeons
tuck their heads beneath their wings.
In the Piazza San Marco
the band retires at midnight—
rows of empty chairs,
the faintest echoing of strings.
Ripple by ripple,
scaling waves
edge close.
Pale yellow moonlight
clings to the basilica.
On the square, one homeless man plays flute
as more arrive, their sleeping bags
simply unrolled by the water.
They sit crosslegged in a ring,
not applauding after the music,
as if some shy notes were yet to come,
hidden among columns of stone.
My heart retains this great palace,
but when I open
The Stones of Venice
a far off sea creeps near.
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