Soon, the lady called Georgia whom I’ve never met but who calls,
Me on my line Italian (33 11 26 1984 anyway)
I will have to leave my little flat (3366) on the Capo di Mori,
make my way to the ‘Madonna Dell’Orto,’ and catch the
vaporetto to Ca’Rezzonico…
I look at my map and anticipate – the SaccadellaMisericordia,
and the Canal Grande, the RialtoMercato and Campo
Giaometto; S. Silvestro and Santa Angelo – before I finally
get to Ca’Rezzonico.
Then I think backwards, phone squeals flow in verse
and reserve quails
All saints are angels, but not all angels are saints,
Silvestro Stallon’e once starred in a soft Porno
and wasn’t it Gugliemo Marconi who inferred that
the comet is cosmic radio?
Did the Real Mercato of Venice ever ride the Vaporetto?
Was my dear daughter not born in the SaccadellaMisericordia?
And isn’t Madonna a hoe?
And as Georgia speaks all I can hear is Ray radiating
“We’ll take the midnight train to Georgia …” where
As the blind pianist plays, we will groove to the music, electronica;
Venezia having played me its last trick; me having ridden the
‘midnight vaporetto’ across the sky on this crisscrossing streets of