I have an etching of the Salute,
‘done by my braathar, my braathar, he see the city
blue and green, my braathar.’

A postcard,
Martirio di S. Giuliana.

And a notebook, handmade and untouched,
Faded stills of the city whose
Canals and colour soaked it.


I have you on the vaparetto,
like a film star
With your red-wrap and hair up and the sun setting
And the water wrapping its sound and depth and thick reflection around us,
The air damp with mud and wine.

We have two martinis in Florian’s,
Then at midnight with our feet in a backstreet canal
We drink beer and listen,
You and me and Venice, sinking.