Atlantis is in the Cookie Jar

The gondolier’s steadied hand
has not stopped counting lovers
with leaf-blower premeditation
and something under the nails
that collects

and festers.

All the old cities are under water, the cathedrals filled with masonic ironies
etched into their austere faces,
and the bistros that once lined the boulevard
with hard-to-pronounce menus
and discounts for seniors
and tourists.
Atlantis is in the cookie jar;
waiting for hands
and daring,
Prague is somewhere else
among the tanks
and flags
of history-book pages

that turn like leaves;
with the season.

Whirling
with the dervishes
of some gondolier’s arthritic
meat grinder

hand.

Venice,
dear Venice,
I have forgotten my bathing suit
and goggles.

Do not start your breaststroke
in the deep end
without me.