Poetry and Poetics
Chords of rain, a river, a sky falling,
the wordless delirium. Only water’s
gray echo on ancient stone.
At the gate of Saint Mark’s Cathedral,
a dead pigeon sways in a black puddle,
mottled feathers, once wind-fluttered.
Tourists follow wooden planks across
the drenched square. The city balanced
between green canals, tilting and sinking.
In less than a year, you will have moved
out of the house, filed for divorce,
taken with you this red umbrella.
You say, I have never seen such rain.
The flood carries the pigeon, an eye open,
unblinking at the paper-white sky.
© by Suzanne
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