Taking on the Local Color: Poems

Le Sorelle

Le Sorelle From their window they see these things: their hands, the shadow of their hands, a striped umbrella going out to sea. The day trembles over the acacia bush. They have not noticed below the window a scarlet motorbike. From the window to the darkness they turn and go downstairs. Then I think: a collection of white hills has left me, or a certain sentence has lost its punctuation. Over the banister I hear them move. They speak, creating a wide and various country. It is only when one tells my fortune that my palm sweats open a new eye and we all swim in a similar ocean. The landscape shatters. Suddenly we are all strangers and each thing, even a car or shoe, only something whose spirit moves us but speaks another language. 37 Le SoreIIe From their window they see these things: their hands, the shadow of their hands, a striped umbrella going out to sea. The day trembles over the acacia bush. They have not noticed below the window a scarlet motorbike. From the window to the darkness they turn and go downstairs. Then I think: a collection of white hills has left me, or a certain sentence has lost its punctuation. Over the banister I hear them move. They speak, creating a wide and various country. It is only when one tells my fortune that my palm sweats open a new eye and we all swim in a similar ocean. The landscape shatters. Suddenly we are all strangers and each thing, even a car or shoe, only something whose spirit moves us but speaks another language. 37 ...