Isle
There are moments in your life that are so strange you are not
Sure they really happened, maybe you dreamed them, so that they
Become a part of your memory of possible event. That time we were
Walking in Venice, a hot day, humid, still, during siesta, when the
Whole floating city seemed emptied, or asleep. We were lost, or
Casually wandering between passageways so narrow a vehicle
Could not pass, when we entered a small square, though trapezoids
Are not squares. Utterly empty. As we crossed over to the other
Side, someone in a third story apartment began to play a piano,
Something…the way you recognize music almost instinctively
From a few stray notes…by Debussy, L’Isle Joyeuse!, cascade of
Keys flowing up and down the board, an immersion in the exotic
Tonality of dream—improbably here, in this city so strange in its
Insubstantiality, at this moment, which I knew to be neither accident
Nor fate, almost made me think it was not happening, had not
Happened, would never happen. We stood, for perhaps a minute, listening,
Not speaking, awed by its wondrous eeriness. Then walked on,
Reluctantly, because you can’t linger forever inside dream moments,
They pass as inexorably as real ones, and can’t be retrieved, and can’t
Be relived, no matter how beautiful, or intriguing, or unique they seem.
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