The painter Tintoretto had an eye
For how the light of Venice danced across
Not only the canals but every surface,
The plenitude of interlacing moods
Of bodies occupying space. His brush
Contained the Cristo risorgente’s glow
Like sunrise on the Adriatic Sea.
And now I rise and walk down to a scree
Of broken pavement where I stub my toe
While waiting for the sunrise and the rush
And swoop of birds. A Little Egret broods
Nearby and I surrender to the harness
Of the day, my load of gathered dross,
And all the things to see before before I die.
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