Venetian Souvenir My friend, a native of the Veneto, Was growing conscious of his years Perhaps that’s why I heard a little more, The skeins to childhood, Skirmishes, meanderings, the inevitable catastrophe He worked like a sculptor – Not so much smoothing clay As adding on, the press of fingertips Less sure but less constrained On the unfinished head His features were less mobile now But they occasionally flared and I could tally what he told With what I hadn’t known The coffees came and went and The piazza stirred with grumblings and flirtation To begin the night I was familiar with Venetian masks And so I made a secondary mould, One that would capture more of him than me, And filled it in to fashion a Remembrance, flexible and light, That could be donned at whim And show the side of truth That can unveil by covering ________________________________________________________________________ |