Gorey at the Biennale
The vaporetto founders in green slush,
wickerwork masks are hanging in the trees
aslant, with half-glimpsed smiles. A vague unease
seems to be centred on a certain bush.
Those little birds seem not quite right for birds,
these beetles have an odd seductive air.
Who ever heard of willow trees with hair?
Words keep suggesting other unwanted words.
It’s not that it’s not pretty in the park,
not that you feel there’s anything afoot,
but when you hear the little steamer’s toot
you hurry to get out before it’s dark.
Of course the gate is locked; of course you knew
the star attraction of the show was you.
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