The one Russian Orthodox brick cathedral in Venice, marked
With a plaque in Cyrillic, is San Zan Degola, San Giovanni Decollato
In the local dialect.  Joseph Brodsky stood, clearly, outside it, another

St. John The Baptist, beheaded. That it stands in San Croce, once
Part of the Luprio, the swamp, explains the mosquitoes and your needing
A net in summer when you sleep there in your hammock, rocking.

It strung up from the open beams under the ceiling. An ancient leisure
Seizes you here. I rise early, as you sleep. Late. In the cemetery, Brodsky
Lies hardly a stone’s throw from Old Ez whom he translated—for himself--

As a young man in Siberia, smoking and writing, so his heart grew weak.
He was never in Venice but that it was cold. In January, ordinarily,
During the holiday break in his teaching. For him, all Venice reeked

Of St. Petersburg—because of the water and the beached seaweed.
When I talk like this it is interesting to you. You see, you see how
Tears spring to my eyes when it seems the skiff in the lagoon carries

The clear figure of Dante—with Virgil close by his shoulder, pointing.
No, it is not the wind. And, then it is the wind. It is always the wind
Pushing the water over into those white riffles ahead of the vaporetto.