Dreaming spires

Leaving the dock behind us,

We sped out into the Venice lagoon. The airport receded.

I picture you perched in the back of the water taxi

in a dappled patch of sunshine,

trying to keep your hair from flying.

The Russian girl (she said her name was Alexandra)

all in black, let hers go with the flow

in the jet stream.

I wondered, did she have an assignation in a certain place,

with a certain man, at an appointed hour

in a café, just off the Piazza San Marco.

Or was it my imagination?

Later, the masks in the souvenir shops

frightened you , so we went to bed.

I dreamed of spires and spies

and of the airport at Alexandria.

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