I'm doing what I did last year:
Standing on a cold Venetian balcony, listening.
The others have gone off to the canal
To see the fireworks. For me, enough to hear
The crack and blast of the show from a distance.
Under the stars, the sky flashes pink and green
With each explosion. The balcony rattles a bit
And, from dark corners of the city, unseen
Voices shout that a new year begins.
Strange to be here again for this strange
Light show, a sort of conceptual art,
Postmodern version of pitched battle,
Gunfight, terror, striking the heart
But sparing the body. Some of it
Sounds like gunshots, and then my frame,
Like the balcony, rattles a bit.
Absurd. But who can blame
Me for going there? The only bombing campaign
I'll ever know simply smokes up the air
And leaves me standing there
Wondering about skirmish scrimmage and war.