It is always the wind pushing the water over into those white riffles ahead of
Our vaporetto. This morning I do not despair for the impersonal hatred
That the cold wind seems to feel when it slips its fingers into the flaws

Of lovely things the women made here on the island of Burano, kept now
In their Museo del Merletto, a square building of two stories on the campo.
Entering, there at the foot of the stairs, the stone shoulders of a girl are bent

To that close work, the work of a spider or net-mender, with one hand
Outstretched carrying the needle, and her other pressed fast in resistance
To keep the new knot taut. As the wind keeps the sails taut for the fool-

Hardy sailors this winter, a few of whom have ventured out in today’s fresh
Sunlight.  For me, it is not possible to wander without a coat.  For you,
It is not possible to wander without a camera to turn on me, to have me

Be the straight measure to capture the perilous angle of the belltower, or
The crazy lean of a tall cypress by the municipal boatyard for the fireboats
And water-ambulance.  These are knocking against the quay, since today

No one is in need of their help.  They simply stand ready, in waiting, as
Orderly and chaste, as loaded with gear and bags as our fellow and sister
Wanderers, all the other passengers here who also need to go back.

		For James Wright’s muse, Jenny
		January-May 2023
                        

Cherokee red, as Wright
Might have painted a wall,
Double woven of a pattern
Elaborate as any Byzantine
Iconostasis.  Best of all,
You, there, as I bought it,

Who knew by then how
To knot it.  Fold the length,
Place it, back of your neck,
Both ends though the loop,
Like that.  That’s the warmth,
Yes, I found I needed now.

		For Dr. Ruffin White
		January-May 2023