Bad day in Bellini country, Venetian dog high-stepper Out of Carpaccio and down the street,
Over his ivory back.
tail like a crozier
A Baron Corvo bad day, you mutter, under your short breath.
Listen, my friend, everything works to our disregard.
Language, our common enemy, moves like the tide against us, Fortune’s heel up-wind
over Dogana’s golden universe
High in the cloud-scratched and distant sky.
Six p.m. Sunday church bells
Flurry and circle and disappear like pigeon flocks,
Lost in the sunlight’s fizzle and fall.
The stars move as well against us.
So what’s the body to do,
From pity, it sometimes seems.
caught in its web of spidered flesh? Venetian dog has figured his out, and stands his ground, Bristled and hog-backed,
Barking in cadence at something that you and I can’t see.
For us, what indeed, lying like S. Lorenzo late at night On his brazier, lit from above by a hole in the sky, From below by coals,
his arm thrown up,
In Titian’s great altarpiece, in supplication, what indeed?
VENETIAN DOG
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