In Venice
We mole
myopically
dusk to dawn
tunnelling dark,
the washing and wonder,
seeking San Marco
some sense in the map,
an end to these drunk palazzo walls.
But who can see clearly
'mongst windows of masks
fashioned from gold
confessions of joy.
For Carnival has come
and we shall be lost;
to dead-ends and alleys, to
pleasuring pain.
Copyright © Gavin Stewart 1996-2006
Website http://www.gavinstewart.net
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