THE OLDEST HANDS IN THE WORLD
On this chair, as I am every morning, waiting
For the cappuccino and brioche to arrive,
And the girl with the oldest hands in the world,
I sense exile is a city reared by eternal artifice.
All sweet violence and thought and repetition.
Beyond what history has left of this topography,
The cup is whiteness, the coffee brown semen.
My first sip makes her appear with provender
And sandals from behind the insignificant ruins.
But for the time being, ruins are eucalyptus trees.
And she not a girl on her way to feed chickens
But a face concealed by dripping nets. Dressed
In black sails and hair dyed a Roman blonde.
The lips of her soul are burning sages, I know.
Her name, I don't. Only her hands matter.
Laden with broached scars, they remind me—
Home is where children sprout in rippled soil.
Where footsteps are mosaics of possibility.
To go on. Finish breakfast. Read the line
That ends in God's breath. Again.
Daniele Pantano 07.07.2009 Druckansicht Seite empfehlen