Salim Gold
5h, Venezia
The black bird lilts a honey-syrup chirp
Lifting over black waves. Gold light pulls near:
The launch for the airport finds its mooring,
While two bronze Moors hammer the hour’s five chimes:
Brass blues stammer San Marco. Now, seagulls
Launch silver across the dark, half-moon dawn;
Sheer mist and spectral gold hover over
The black lagoon: An Istanbul instance.
You leave Venice as you arrived, crossing—
Trim, slim—the hours, the waves, bereft of one
Who was waiting, who has waited, who waits,
Always your arrival. How many ways
Do we say, “Au revoir“? How many times
Do we say, “Te amo“? Tides alone count.
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