The bereft nightlife uplifts.
We walk beside shadows
in search of cicchetti,
something authentic to prolong the hush.

I forgo tourism and calves liver.
Buy a mask and hide in Burano
island of lace, seafood, and vibrant colors.

Like Hemingway, I retreat to Torcello,
write about a river and trees.
Make a date with my muse
to meet at Ponte del Diavolo.