“La morte non č nel non potere comunicare
ma nel non potere essere compresi”
Pier Paolo Pasolini
“Sounds”
there is no street no world out there
he repeats himself seated in front of the TV
the night falls on his curved back
his sweat more bitter than he knows
sounds from another sphere reach his ear
he hushes them begs them to leave
all the world out there absorbed
in the loud remoteness of its night shifts
police rides busy ambulances screaming aloud
but far away as on the verge
of some neighboring correspondences
something slender pale and shapeless
merges from the darkness to remind him
of what he once was thought
something
as empty as a summer suite
hung to a nail on the wall
waiting for him
but he has no head no body no love no scare
to contain his dormant solitude.
Erminia Passannanti, 26.10.2001
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