From the train window coming here, I saw the Autostrada stretching alongside tracks, cars racing us, saw the names, hip to all the games on signs -- Montellago, Scorze, Piombino. In the countryside cracked my side at the sign on a farmhouse -- said Spend Summer Here, pale pink, paler green. Lean and mean boys hawking at the train speeding toward Venice. In Venice we push our way toward St. Mark's caught up in the remarks and shuffle of tourists, hip to nothing but the red scarf leading them. Good at crossing bridges, skipping steps, we were out of step. Called for help and got none. Nuns in rows in the square. Are they square, anywhere? We played each other nights like stringed instruments, through the narrow streets, walking in front of our own long shadows, bright even at dusk. Used with the permission of Copper Canyon Press, P.O. Box 271, Port Townsend, WA 98368-0271, www.cc.press.org |