* * *
There is nothing else as fine and free
as to break up for good with a beloved her
and leave the railroad station all alone.
And then in front of you entirely new
the palaces of Venice would reappear.
You linger on the stairs and then go to
take a gondola. As you approach Rialto
you breathe in freely smells of fish,
rancid butter and the stale vegetables
and recall without regret that her train
has probably already passed Mestre.
Then walk into a banco lotto shop
and bet on seven, fourteen and forty,
walk down to Merceria and dine
with a bottle of Valpolicella. At nine
you change and show up at the Piazza
and, listening to the magic overture
from the Tannhauser, think: “By now
she must have passed Pontebba.” How easy!
Your heart is refreshed, and slightly bitter.