my father read me a poem tonight

venice poem

the city itself, what it
is, a
city of walking at nite
city of old and ugly houses
city of real pain and real children
city of open sores and open eyes
city of doom and terror
city of ocean and animal lust
city of dying and struggle
city of Venice, my city, city within a city I do not
know or love

...

what a city is/
a vision, a
holy eye, a
structure

what a city is/
a face, a face of
love, of the place, the real
place...
yes, there is a king of
knowing, it can be called
love

stuart z perkoff