a small pleasure of birds, (preghiera serale)

[ a small pleasure of birds, (preghiera serale) ]

I'm suddenly older
I mean, of course, how wily silence and nothing else
has happened. Like everyone else, I have only a first
few scattered thoughts out there in front of me
so starkly, wanting, to soften beyond the heart's
invisible, never obvious, reaches. I think of bedsheets
not quite warm, I think tables full of dirty dishes,
I think my legs are tree trunks sunk in grass
each time my heart is broken. Behind the grocery store
there's a mountain of bruised peaches. Slovenly present
with evening upon it. Bones, I feel my bones. You said
I have vanished under fingers, sublimated, and I've lost
a scene set in brooklyn, hours ago, when I fell asleep
and started to dream. There were distant sirens, drifting
like leaves through the streets I don't know the names of.
Suitably I might have asked you for a glass of water. You'd say,
the future of rain is river. But tonight the rivers are black.
I think entrapment comes up as a metaphor. We've never met.
Still, there is a prayer, like the night, it whispers
through the poplars, it is the color of my throat:
we love & we love & we love & we love & we love
but it turns out there’s nothing much to say
or translate into italian at the end.
* * * * *