Poet in the Sinking City

Formless and void, Dante thought, regretting he hadn’t written anything about Creation. He watched the canals overflow, obscuring and possibly defacing the stonework. Cracks spiderwebbed around the mouths of the gorgon-head grotesques, the mosaic nuances covered in blue. Well, green, blue-green, wait, black, or was that at the edges of his eyes? Reviewing his life, he smiled at the thought of the welcoming fires.