Barcarolle

Robert Wexelblatt

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The black gondola suavely beckons, a
luxury not to be missed. So you nod,
step gingerly aboard, and let yourself
sink into the plush throne. The masked city
is sinking too, dissolving in the foul
water where even sodden newsprint and
rotten fruit are almost ennobled by
St. Mark’s dome and those phallic lions.
You’re rocked and rolled under pastel clouds
in the ineffably soft light of
recollected paintings; undulating
swells reflect glinting palazzos. So you
sigh, go limp, submerged in antiquity.
The ebony prow skims over the canal.

Lido or Lethe, crib or coffin, either
way you’re cradled in oblivion by
the lilt of the as-yet-unpaid tenor
at his sweep, caroling cannily.