we said unflattering things about my ex-girlfriend from earlier that year.
There are kinder creatures living under rocks,
so if we talked her down
she deserved it and a ticket out of town.
"Did she make you come?" you wanted to know,
ever the ethereal philospher,
like Vivaldi, priest and composer--
and I told you no, no she did not.
Vivaldi was born in Venice,
borne by water and the Divine spark,
you are as Turkish as a crescent moon and star.
The English tucked their tails and fled Gallipoli
because they saw you foretold.
When I talk this way, you roll your eyes.
"Not everyone thinks I'm as wonderful as you do, Shay."
Fools. I can't account for them,
you look so smug even as you deny.
I am as slow as the four seasons,
inhabited by movements and tempos beyond even my own reach.
There are rigged carnival games easier to solve than I am,
I have always been more fascinated by the sorceress's candles
than by common fireworks.
You level a look at me, dark-eyed and not bothered
with Christian ceremony or habitual reserve.
"Come here," you say, not harshly, not sweetly.
Venice is known for festivals and lights, as well as its canals--
sometimes a new arrival takes the old city as a challenge,
taking her time,
finding her own way,
walking on water as Vivaldi plays.
for Marian's challenge at Real Toads.