by John Goggin

Foot-sore and ‘mazed on Venetian streets, my Clytemnestra points;
“I see the dragon’s tongue… just there, beneath the Lion Gate!”
“How cute,” I think. Of course, she has her axe to grind;
once more I’ve made her miss her monthly maenadic tryst
with the Women’s Will to Power Club. Just so we can wander
aimlessly in the foul Doge’s breath of these stygian canals.

I’m searching for the Tintoretto of my dreams; all brown shadows
and tawny light and sweet Baby Jesus smiling salvation on meae culpae ….
I’m listening for a single Casanova sigh, deep in his cell,
avidly retasting a hundred other men’s wives …..
I’m watching for the Turkish fleet, scimitars and cannons poised
to destroy every gondolier, every balustrade, every hope we have ….

“Fuck these tourists,” she says. (Only an old fool would trust
that leering smile.) “Let’s go back to the hotel and do it up
against that cheap armoire. Let’s do it, me on top,
inside that faux-Baroque tub with the little lion’s feet!”
What can I say? She knows my tastes too well. I nod and make
a mental note; when she starts her downswing, duck!.

–Torino, 1992 (or was it 1993?)

John’s comment: Here’s another. Written during the Italian sojourn of the early ’90s. Still the same concerns, it seems.