Venice During an Election Year in the U.S.

Dilruba Ahmed

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We learn what we love
          when it’s half-sunk: 
a ship’s hull slipping
          from vision, just a tip

visible to remind us of its
           hidden bulk.
Entire cities sink
           without solution. 

A piazza’s bricks
          succumb to floods. 
Tourists.  Cellists.  Pigeons. 
          There’s silver water

putrid with fish-stink,
          littered paper
lapping in canals.  Wilted lilies. 
           Each day bears the pull

of a dead weight. 
          To our left,
a bobber shudders
           on a cast line

before it dips
           and disappears. 
To our right,
           someone’s trawl breaks.

 

 

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