perfectly exaggerated coloured   houses, doors

planters hanging out, off  pretty little grille balconies


almost that Verona feel with the roses and pink posies

there’s just enough

history and grit and beauty

and thin alleyways

to keep it all together

in sinking water

bottomless bottle green it seems

glossy black gondolas sailing softly   gently through

canals and underbelly of   bridges and bridges; such curves

of pale yellow canvases

       jumping off vaporetto   parting to make way

endless hushed churches;   non toccare

crunching, shuffling footsteps,

non toccare     delicate china carnevale masks of Venezia 

among lit candles and frozen paintings along the pews

gilded dramatic holy figures at the end of long walks

along long-laid marble tiles underfoot


you almost think, maybe somewhere


definitely here, where the aroma

stone baked pizza in the air

sarde in saor 

and the espresso steam

around the tiny pavements lining the streams;   here

early morning lurkers,  briskly aiming towards

uno solo macchiato at a little green newsstand with caffe

cioccola and nocciola pane    por uno venti 

this is where the best breakfast of your

life happens




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