Tuesday 14th June, 2016
Versailles for the starving ones,
with their dream of waking up inside an open shop.
Lights. Not a single bird though.
Well, only the flamingos (and a lone crow skidding
under wheel, two miles beyond the strip
where the radiation lingers.)
Back in Venice water abounds: a canal glinting turquoise,
a clean, silent Venice. No stones just gilt: the eye's favourite layer.
Mirrors on the ceiling, decorating dancers.
Have you seen David, the regicide, illuminated
by slot machines? And Telemachus no less.
Meanwhile, up the strip, David's friend Canova revels,
embodied in his own Psyche (and her fragrant god.)
Not the one you might recognize, the other group, standing,
the bride holding a butterfly
in Caesar’s teeming Palace. Canova, the Venetian,
would like this place. Certainly more than David.