Wait at the water, not
where the tourists go,
but in the quiet places, away
from the noise, away
from the direction of the mobs, wait
there, in the quiet.
Whose voice do you hear?
Does the crowd still echo in your ear?
A parent? A lover turned murderer?
Wait, then, here in the silent place.
Listen to the water lap on the stairs.
Let the silence catch up to you.
Now, whose voice do you hear?
Whose unfamiliar voice?
That timid sound, almost familiar, or perhaps
strange indeed, a lost thing in the night.
Lean into it, that wavering voice, listen,
give it safety, for it is yours,
so long hidden you did not recognize it.
Come with me to the water.
Sound carries here,
About this poem
The picture was taken in Venice, years ago. I’ve been waiting for its poem to show up. And here it is.