In my own journey of the Magi,
footsteps fell at the Calle de Fabbri.
It was midnight and the shop I visited
was open-one of those that sells Adriactico.
Our appointment was at the hour that the lord bid:
Glory be to the father, son and holy ghost,
I crossed not one but twelve bridges
to see you angry at me-
standing as the Republic did.
On the technical question,
there was no doubt you were
a fine piece of architecture-
preserved, unknown even to yourself.
Dressed for cocktails at seven
we met earlier at San Marco-
it was warm for the time of year,
your husband was absent,
I had a copy of the Blue Guide with me.
As there were no motor cars,
I impressed you with churches-
which look like entrances to hell
at times when the conversation was lively.
Retiring to bed, I remember Byron’s dictum:
‘I loved your sister, too. Did you know that?
