b.z. niditch | in venice


Bravo, Bene
she says
after my rehearsal
of the Turkish Concerto
by Mozart
here by the canals
always lined
with new refugees
and ghettos
viewing a sunset
on the Rialto bridge
here the art futurists
seem almost mechanical
in their auto eroticism
like the black shirts
on a clothes line
I thank the woman
in the distance
by my show of hands,
then in my hotel
put on Coltrane
by hysterical showers
which rarely work out
for me,
have two lager beers
in glasses lacquered green
thinking of all
who conquered here
yet I’d rather walk
in the footsteps
Thomas Mann
who saw through
a long century
of the unexpected
and unexpressed.

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