The city, a drawing made in the sand
a castle built out of leaves
a child’s tunnel dug in the garden

sinking, sinking, sinking

It is no different than any other
of the mighty works of man
except the speed of its entropy,
the watery creep of the inevitable.
The organic reek of marauding death
billowing into the cracks
of an island made art,
marshes made masterpiece,
canals connecting Caravaggio and Canaletto,
Pollack and Palmas,
Santacroce and San Marco

sinking, sinking, sinking.