A click of window glass had roused me Out of my sleep at early dawn.
Beneath me Venice swam in water;
A sodden pretzel made of stone.
I was all quiet now; however,
While still asleep,
I heard a cry - And like a sign that had been silenced It still disturbed the morning sky.
It hung - a trident of the Scorpion - Above the sleeping mandolins And had been uttered by an angry Insulted woman's voice, maybe.
Now it was silent.
To the handle Its fork was stuck in morning haze.
The Grand Canal, obliquely grinning Kept looking back - a runaway. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Reality was born of dream-shreds Far off, among the hired boats.
Like a Venetian woman,
Venice Dived from the bank to glide afloat.
