TRAVEL POEM

Servetta Muta

A body in Venice, of water or flesh or other corporal matter

To be a body in Venice, say Ezra Pound’s body, surrounded by fir trees on San Michele

To be a body in Venice, pounding over the Rialto bridge to arcades of glass 

horses and gondolier caps

To be a body in Venice, eternally lying under glass in the knave of a chapel

To be the body, the body thieves stole, who’s bones, hair and clothing are quartered and

divided

To be the head of Saint Lucy, with her plate of eyeballs, the long stalks dangling and wet

To be the one who plucks the beards from the dead monks and who makes the effigies in

wax 

To be the ones who pull out their own teeth to make the Christ’s teeth 

To be pillars of bone sunk into clay 

To be the foundation of paperweights and opera houses

To be a body in Venice engaged to the sea

To be a glorious and tawdry tourist

To be a body in Venice