Street in Venice, John Singer
Today, she is in Venice – oil on wood –
walking through a Sargent street scene, shawl
around her, tight against the breeze. She should
not be here: fin de siècle light is al-
most red, almost golden – lion of
St. Mark – that kind of light surrounds her, fall-
ing softly from the brick and lintels. Love
and autumn are this red. She walks away
from love past recessed windows blank above
the street. Two men behind her pause and sway
against the light. Time is water: clear
and sibilant. She’s walking through its play
and out of Venice. Sargent summers here.
The month, September. She won’t recall the year.