“A true gondolier leaves his pole in his gondola
when delivering midnight snacks to the doge.”
-Confetti, 1410–1440

Pigeons rain on palaces, in piazzas.
Canals, green with frosting and fudge.
Gas-lit lamps like tulips, no, irises spot

pigeon drops on the sidewalk. So
hard to tell Venices apart. Tortoises
in Venices give directions. YOU ARE HERE

by an X on their shells. Ants, every-
where, breathlessly repair their
eighth wonders. My map and my finger go

left where the marbled keep filling their founts.
Then right, past barber pole masts where
pile drivers are adding on wharves. Days add

up and go down here. Spice ships went down,
became salt, no, silt. A true Venice remembers:
she’s pasta; her water, sauce.