An Afternoon in Venice

 

Isle

 

There are moments in your life that are so strange you are not

Sure they really happened, maybe you dreamed them, so that they

Become a part of your memory of possible event. That time we were

Walking in Venice, a hot day, humid, still, during siesta, when the

Whole floating city seemed emptied, or asleep. We were  lost, or

Casually wandering between passageways so narrow a vehicle

Could not pass, when we entered a small square, though trapezoids

Are not squares. Utterly empty. As we crossed over to the other

Side, someone in a third story apartment began to play a piano,

Something…the way you recognize music almost instinctively

From a few stray notes…by Debussy, L’Isle Joyeuse!, cascade of

Keys flowing up and down the board, an immersion in the exotic

Tonality of dream—improbably here, in this city so strange in its

Insubstantiality, at this moment, which I knew to be neither accident

Nor fate, almost made me think it was not happening, had not

Happened, would never happen. We stood, for perhaps a minute, listening,

Not speaking, awed by its wondrous eeriness. Then walked on,

Reluctantly, because you can’t linger forever inside dream moments,

They pass as inexorably as real ones, and can’t be retrieved, and can’t

Be relived, no matter how beautiful, or intriguing, or unique they seem.