Sometimes I think I’d like to go back—sit once more
in Campo Santo Stefano, Venezia, feel again
its graciousness, its aura; or perhaps
linger once again among the aspens in October
their golden leaves, quaking in sunlight,
dancing in celebration—as if proclaiming
some recent apotheosis!  

And yet, amid all the aching
for these homes, I understand,
and, ever needing such reminders,
I say it to myself:  

    If I could return,
    it would not be to that place,
    Heraclitus’ river ever flowing,
    inexorably flowing—
    How, then, could that slant of Venetian light
    cut again its sudden slender swath
    across my small table?
    Or how could the sunlight play again,
    or the breeze dance again in such joy,
    among the aspens?   

    And I…?