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Past San Sebastiano, past
The Ogni Santi and San Trovaso, down
The Zattere and left
Across the tiered bridge to where
---Off to the right, half-hidden---
The Old Dogana burns in the spring sun:
This is how you arrive.
This is the street where Pound lives,
A cul-de-sac
Of rheumy corners and cracked stone,
At whose approach the waters
Assemble, the gulls cry out:
In here---unspeaking, unturned---he waits,
Sifting the cold affections of the blood.
Others have led the way,
Vanishing in their sleep, their beds
Unmade, the sheets still damp
From what has set them apart---
Cancer or bad lungs, the wrack
Of advancing age, the dull
Incense of suicide ...
And he has survived,
Or refused to follow, and now
Walks in the slow strobe of the sunlight,
Or sits in his muffled rooms,
Wondering where it went bad,
And leans to the signal, the low
Rustle of wings, the splash of an oar.
Today is one of those days
One swears is a prophesy:
The air explicit and moist,
As though filled with unanswered prayers;
The twilight, starting to slide
Its sooty fingers along the trees;
And you, Pound,
Awash in the wrong life,
Cut loose upon the lagoon (the wind
Off-shore, and gaining), the tide going out ...
Here is your caul and caustic,
Here is your garment,
Cold-blooded father of light---
Rise and be whole again.
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