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Tudor facades, mocked as we crept from the crypt

Beneath Maples that cradled Phosphor.

Suburbia, napping, yawns and allows

Tintoretto to drape over the scene

A Venetian sky’s light pollution,

St Mark’s body brought to Venice.

Bound In tandem with the estuary

A needle stitching the seam of dusk,

Where it seems a comfort to be free,

Brush the strewn paper along the aisle,

Sit idle, and draft

The tableau of my arrival.