poems

Parole sprecate

Wasted just as leftover food.
Spit out in the street, at the bar
from the couch to curse
the evening breaking news.
Words thrown away
in the usual rubbish;
for relatives, colleagues, neighbors.
To discuss the weather
on the lift. For the policeman
the baker, the pump attendant
the waiter. In the net
as dumb as fishes
striving for a shout.
How many wasted words.

For you, there are none left.
I haven’t any left for you.
You who used to tremble
for my letters. For you
there was no fasting.
There was a private language
now deprived of sound.
Deprived of silence now
that we decided
to be eternally deprived
of each other.

L’ora più bella

The finest hour is when the sun already tired
betrays the pain of farewell.
Around five o’clock, when
he strolls soft and puffy
and everything else idles.
Blurred shapes, burnt lines on the horizon
and your face
so pure, ardent, bright.
It was your favorite hour and now
that we’re kept apart by land, it’s the hour
we’re granted by time.
Like this full moon that shakes you so much
as it happens to wolves and grapes and tides.
Now your odd restlessness is here
reflected by a coin in the sky
spent for the theater of the night
dark to any audience everywhere.

I remember a poet friend wrote a sentence of love
connecting moles with a black pen
on the back of his beloved.
I wonder if by linking yours
I’ll find your way again.

*
May it hurt a little less
this banal anxiety that cracks
the porch.
Time has closed the hydrangeas
and the Lambrusco is almost finished.
I meet it dagger, thorn in the finger
fly buzzing in the morning on a Sunday
dawn.
If only I could hope in a vinegar footbath
In a mauve cream balm.
For my back hurts
as the donkey’s back at war.
The sorrow of a sleep loving the waking.

Then you, Whiggling your hip
with a basket of cherries

*
I prefer to touch you.
Flesh instead of ideas
rather than words, the body.
I am heartened
by the certainty
of life and death.
By the fingers able
to hand over to the past
the talents of the present.
For each caress
renewed knowledge
that nothing knows.
I prefer your back, your butt
your belly your thighs.
The led to the leader.

In the home garden fades
the idiot thought
that a rose is forever.