There is nothing else so fine and free 
as to break up for good with a beloved 
and leave the railroad station all alone. 
And then in front of you entirely new 
the palaces of Venice would reappear. 
You linger on the stairs and then go on 
take a gondola. As you approach the Rialto 
you breathe in freely smells of fish, 
rancid butter, and stale vegetables 
and recall without a regret that her train 
has probably already passed Mestre. 
Then walk into a banco lotto shop 
and bet on seven, fourteen, and forty.
Walk down to Mertcheria and dine 
with a bottle of Valpolicella. At nine 
you change and show up at piazza 
and, listening to the magic overture 
from the Tannhäuser, think, “By now 
she must have passed Pontebba.” How free! 
Your heart feels now new and slightly bitter.
 

1925-1926