As a robin
I tap the distance from your eyelash
Unable to observe
The silence to the bitter end of a red fish, maybe
For the simple reason
That the red fish’s theory
It’s sly as
Light signs of deceits
I have learned to admit.
This evening I’ve picked up 16 brilliant ideas
And two violets.
To say them to you
I should survey the morning hatred
with the necessary solitude.
To give them to you
I would need to bend me on tin water
And throw bread crumb
Smiling
For the mess done
By red fishes which run to squad because
Red fish’s theory
It’s wood against wood,
Water and soot in the harbour dumps,
It’s feeling inside a sharp extended noise,
An undefended empty space,
remaining a flag in the fog
remaining
A swinging on spider’s web
Blind bug.
Well.
By now I know everything on the febrile beating of your eyelids,
about the safe touch of daily things.
Know about the way you move as who comes to give an order
And leave.
You’re shadows on the walls.
The smoke of the torchs.
I look at you with a blackbird on my shoulder and the profile of a coin.
You stare at me
With the conscience and the certainty of who knows
What could happen.
Rolled up in a corner I order the blackbird
Time of calm or at least
A false mourning.
And you begin.
Saying that every time we are together I say few words.
“I know it. I’m special.”
You need to hear me saying something that comforts you but I answer with
words of five letters.
Because.
“I’m special, I’m sorry.”
You say that I don’t want to do anything, I don’t want to go out so you
throw an old thirteen year thing in my face, that fifth year’s school trip I’ve
never done.
“I’m special, I just told you.”
You claim that I should stop telling you that story about blackbird, I
should stop singing to you every time that song about blackbird and imitating
all the pigeons we meet.
“Special.”
And you never tell me the things you write. I must read them. It’s
absurd.
“Special, don’t insist my darling, I’m really special.”
Come now, seriously.
“Do you know what I was thinking on?”
Please tell me.
“Wouldn’t be necessary to write what is thought.”
That is to say?
“Saying what you think you’ll always end up with writing obvious
sentences. Think when you are in love. If you try to write something you will
find between hands only pathetic and obvious sentences again.”.
I don’t think so.
“Yes I think.”
Please, allow me to pointing out that...
“I cannot. Do you remember? I’m special…”
Right. I forgot it. But listen, my Special being, what would it be
necessary to write?
“I imagine what you would like to think. What you would like to say.
Think about love. How you manage to rebuilt it once ended. Think to the angles
that you’ll get back. To the shades. Think to the thoroughness you can say
about an ended thing. You can say and write things you have never thought to.”
You laugh.
I love the way you laugh.
You are as ears broken for fun
In August nights.
Beyond every morning awakening
Ours is a slow wind of won
wich preserves and protects us
Beating on the soft creacking of woods
tapping in the night
a tiny and continuous noise,
they tap
the red fish’s theory that,
like rainwater
persistent and plentiful,
increases canals and swells rivers.
You and I, we're really red fishes under the rain.
Under the rain we are in a raising of waters without peace
In a icy night that drips us
Water holes around and digs
In our misery and measure
The astonishment of the differences,
The sharpness of their sides.
I have 16 theories, this evening
and a big wish to take you
on a wood hut above a poplar
In Madagascar
Covered by a roof of banana leaves
With the rain that drips us
Gush on the nek.
I want to take you above a poplar in Madagascar
And hear you reading something of Bufalino
Or Consolo
And tell you you’re special too
And every sighted buoy is nothing else
Than a lukewarm earth marks where to rest.
Grow your distance from the things, my love,
make it lasting,
don’t let that becomes familiar to someone.
Should be for you a baptismal source
That contains up til now
The last chapters for your abandonment.
Never betray your distance from the things,
Learn to recognize it in its lightest signs:
The piling up of leaves to the sides of the road,
The soot in the suburbs,
The opening of a white flower in the middle of the night,
My clothes untidy,
Neither I was blind,
The hatred of going however.
Don’t stir your distance from the things
With daily episodes.
Plait it as lonely lasting matter.
And if you have five free minutes,
count four,
one keep it for you.
