I
Crepuscular smiles
hover above incubation.
Central Air switches off and on,
cradling us in dream's inspiration.
Soon we'll bloom
and turn to the Sun.
II
In Venice she preferred
Tintoretto to my beloved
Titian.
We argued outside the Salute
as pale voyeurs crossed,
in bloodless packs,
to St. Mark's.
Take us, Canalazzo,
past tour books
and souvenirs.
Where dew of kisses
is taken up by hands
of cherubim
To fashion pillows on
a bed of blue sublime.
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