Dreams of Venice

I dream of Venice in May.
Of still waters and bright colors,
Exquisite cappuccino in tiny cafes.
The Thursday market with seafood so fresh
it squirms.

Two blocks of narrow streets
and the tourists are left behind,
and the magic begins.

I am not afraid of being a foreigner.
It is not a thing that depends on place.
I am foreign even here in my home.
Everything is a discovery.
A recovering of artifacts, rediscovered
each day of your journey.

So send me out.
Let me be lost.
It is a familiar place,
and more often than not,
in those lost places,
I have discovered wonder
following me through life like a comet’s tail,
stardust of all the places I have been,
failures and fantasies alike,
they light my sky and point the way.

I dream of Venice in May.
Island bound and lost,
the only one who speaks my language,
as I wander small shops
and empty cathedrals.

I dream of the cliffs of Tintagle,
the streets of London,
Mad King Ludwigs castles in Bavaria,
and airports. Of New Orleans and Memphis,
Of Nevada deserts and ghost towns, abandoned factories
and tiny churches in tiny towns.

I lose myself in them.
I find myself in them.

So send me out.
Let me be lost.
It does not matter where or when.
There is lostness anywhere, even here, where I stand.
in this place called home.