ALT The text of a poem, as follows: a Venezia, la luna di miele by A. A. Parr It was the masks in the paned black windows halfway over the largest bridge that got me: took pause in my breath, in my cobblestoned steps, in the dark of that—the last—night. Somewhere in the densest depth of waters and chill August air, somewhere just before the edge of the island of glass, somewhere just past my own broken moment of expectation, I asked you if all this could last. See, when the bottommost storey is rotting decay, you can't simply leave the foundation to fish, leave wishes to lovers— the vaporetto vibration, the air in my lungs, I want you to tell me the bridge was a step too far, the night with that moon I could reach if I wanted, the thrum of their voices, the thrill in my heart. The water was not yet rising but we were moving all our artefacts, even then, to higher ground; we were unmasked and perfumed from the roses and eggshells, on that—our last—night.

ALT Silhouette portrait of me, the author, A. A. Parr, in front of a hazy grey and pale pink water and sky in Venice, italy.