Untitled poem

22 THE MINNESOTA REVIEW II I have wandered through all these streets, in bars, like a soldier, and haven't seen a single smile on the scurrying people. I haven't even achieved the abstruse grace of the poor. To return to the place I came from doesn't upset me, except for the shame of it. How heavy this cigarette is to me, traveller in the clouds, now that I pray to go back to my village of smugglers, all lights extinguished. (Bari, Oct. 24, 1947) from La poesia di Scotellaro by Franco Fortini MARK WISTI God is drunk today. The clouds are bottoms of shovels patting the heads of the skyscrapers, where the mayor is sleeping. He is drunk, covered with a volume of who's who. And the real estate developer, listed on pg. 453, he is drunk, lying at the mayor's feet. The city moves slowly, and God and the mayor and the real estate developer are drunk. ...