I will roll
my pants above my ankle
like the old
man, his hair getting thin
wading out
at the shoreline
sand rising
between my toes
then falling
away, with the pull of the tide.
I, too, am
old
and walk
alone, like the cats
barriers
only I can see keeping me apart
the
observation space of garbled sound
fractured
light casting yellow fog
the taste of
tea in the galleries
served with
honey
thinly
sliced lemons translucent as
the morning
smoke that licks the brickwork.
A wedge of
crumb cake, taste it
the smoke
whispers as it traces the helix
of my ear,
so soft I cannot tell if
the whispers
are English or Italian
Questa fiamma
staria senza piu scosse
searching
for synapses
closing the
pathways
Senza tema
d’infamia ti rispondo
nestling down for the long winter to come.
