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.
