Burbank With A Baedeker: Bleistein With A Cigar
Tra-la-la-la-la-la-laire—nil
nisi
divinum
stabile
est;
caetera
fumus—the
gondola
stopped,
the
old
palace
was
there,
how
charming
its
grey
and
pink—
goats
and
monkeys,
with
such
hair
too!—so
the
countess
passed
on
until
she
came
through
the
little
park,
where
Niobe
presented
her
with
a
cabinet,
and
so
departed.
Burbank
crossed
a
little
bridge
Descending
at
a
small
hotel;
Princess
Volupine
arrived,
They
were
together,
and
he
fell.
Defunctive
music
under
sea
Passed
seaward
with
the
passing
bell
Slowly:
the
God
Hercules
Had
left
him,
that
had
loved
him
well.
The
horses,
under
the
axletree
Beat
up
the
dawn
from
Istria
With
even
feet.
Her
shuttered
barge
Burned
on
the
water
all
the
day.
But
this
or
such
was
Bleistein's
way:
A
saggy
bending
of
the
knees
And
elbows,
with
the
palms
turned
out,
Chicago
Semite
Viennese.
A
lustreless
protrusive
eye
Stares
from
the
protozoic
slime
At
a
perspective
of
Canaletto.
The
smoky
candle
end
of
time
Declines.
On
the
Rialto
once.
The
rats
are
underneath
the
piles.
The
jew
is
underneath
the
lot.
Money
in
furs.
The
boatman
smiles,
Princess
Volupine
extends
A
meagre,
blue-nailed,
phthisic
hand
To
climb
the
waterstair.
Lights,
lights,
She
entertains
Sir
Ferdinand
Klein.
Who
clipped
the
lion's
wings
And
flea'd
his
rump
and
pared
his
claws?
Thought
Burbank,
meditating
on
Time's
ruins,
and
the
seven
laws.
