bound for Mestre and Trieste
are now lined up in queues
on the Lido's long horizon
where Thomas Mann's
von Aschenbach
once fondly gazed
upon his handsome hero
the young and noble Tadzio
in his Death in Venice novelette
although today
I have to say there's really not
that much to see
aside the lines
of monochrome ships
parked in the haze
or the high up clock
of Hotel des Baines.
The wind frayed sand
revealed pre-season plethora
of plastic and polystyrene.
Thermovisco nuzzled
Suco e Polpa Pesca.
A pigeon pair inspected
an unzipped can
Stolichno Bock Beer
in a rag of net
where a bulb
washed up
with glass unbroken.
There was the occasional squawk
of a gull out at sea.
Byron's Mediterranee
Deoderante had corroded
at the collar. Do not expose
to naked flame I read. And
there half buried
the Debica Vivo Radial
which appeared to be
in good condition
like the solitary pickled onion
and the welding glasses
in Day-Glo orange.
A dog floated by face down
smooth and slick as a seal.
On the long horizon nothing was moving.
