It was while the train Waited indefinitely At a complicated junction Outside Venice in the 1970s Travelling northwards Via Bologna before the bombing. She was at least a communist. My notebook describes her As tasting of vanilla. Vanilla. I can remember nothing else Except a type of blondeness. On the same page I have written Pigeons, The same shade of grey As chewing gum or even darker, Dirty like canals. St. Mark's Square & The Bridge of Sighs. Crowded Bologna railway station Redecorated by her screams. I cannot even recall How I might have thought Vanilla tasted back then Never having tasted it Until I was much older But I was surprised When I remembered pleasantly surprised.