Smell of coffee in Merceria ,in Venice and in any bylane
            behind the Pantheon. Or a very mossy capuccino in Florian,
          on the bench of the Chinese, and through panes one can see
        the slobbery tongue of the acqua alta licking the pavement
of San Marco Piazza.                                                  

        In shop windows, beneath archways, floodlit celling lamps
 of Murano,                                                                    
  a day. In mirrors.                                                           

 
    The soggy shaky board of the pontoon, under the foot.
Microscopic creatures bustling in the glaucous water
  and the light of a street lamp falls sheer, scattering       
 its diopters like a rain of stars.                                      

                                                                The same on the level with Collioure's quay
                under a silver sun

                                                                        The deep green of the water had moved me by its
        bare limpidity

Four or five years old ragazze sell very ripe watermelons,
 the very pink slice of which appears to be their offered sex.

 Streets cut by the knife of the rising sun, behind Quirinal.  
   World being outlined.