Fondamenta Delle Carceri.

 

Steps in the night silence,

walking and talking, I’ve always liked

a moment in the tale of one’s life

that sparks into an epiphany.

 

I was walking you to the car park-

the evening of confessions was almost over,

your words with layers as deep as the city

not fearing the mud they sank in, not at all-

we were passing by the prison, on the stones

skirting the grass, damp with frost, it was cold,

the puffs of our breaths pulsing the graphics of our words.

I said, “You look better than last time, definitely”,

your eyes were dark pools, jewels shining

with the lights of the street lamps in the fog,

I’ve always liked the blur of light filtered into

the damp and thick dots of air,

what brings so close any breath, any stare.

“I look better, maybe, well.. I’ve lost that

whimpering edge in my voice because

now, you know, I’m in the shit, really”.

You smiled then, for the first time.

I said” Shit does you good.”

And I embraced you for a second by the prison door.

 

I left you at the car park, your eyes,

in the light of the asphalt and the lightened glass,

were still retaining the shards of a smile.

Walking back, in the dark corners,

frost and salt gnawing plasters,

your “in the shit” was sparkling,

a necklace of furrows, a silver lace of troubles

where I would anyway have liked to be.

 

Dark and damp corners. Life.

While I was in bed a lace

kept sparkling in a chink in the shutters.

That night I couldn’t sleep.