Sunday’s children in the church of San Giacomo
Giggle and crane,
But are distracted by the sound of the sound
Of their voices in the hymn.
In the Piazza of the Ghetto evening comes.
From the shop of earnest men
A murmur of quiet disputation.
In Blatas’ seven bronze reliefs
A molten race spills from railway cars
As the light slowly fails them.
Venice rocks on its sleeping oars.
Still the domes and spires rise
To bribe the living and the dead to grace,
Each church crammed shut
On its saint, its fading masterpiece;
And the cold eye of the Doge still looms
In the shadows of her old canals:
His fingers trace the ghosts of ancient plots
And feel about
For secret coins forged in darkness,
For the blade inside the covenant.
Now with cooler air tasting of salt,
Venice is skinned not gold,
But silver by the moon;
Moored here,
Brided by contrivance to the sea,
She stands defiant,
A stupendous hag, unrepentant,
Hung with souvenirs.