Out, in the cold burning thirst
which always is when you do say
no, it’s nothing at all,
I see myself stuck
brick by brick
kneaded by anxiety and cement
and I fear above all the cement.
Every drop falling from our hugs
is paint on what I am now
a scaffold with armour of roses,
but if the petals were your fingers
were dozens, thousands, I would be intact
and perfect, but no more than one season
perfect as the summer of the child I was.
Precarious is tonight, that’s how I feel
precarious is the world, where tonight I fall asleep.
Poet of the Month April 2016
Read more about Danilo Breschi