Even here (ascolto della poesia recitata dall’autore)
Why does it not surprise, that even here, even now,
there are things that must be left unsaid.
That in the linked letters of our cursive fences,
we have found ourselves on the outside of ourselves.
Even here, alone in the one-roomed page, where
the light never goes off, these words are only pieces of our broken shadows.
There is a silverfish in our heart, leaving spaces where
there were things it was not correct to feel for, where our words are buried
in that deepening hole in the pages of the book of life
under the elegant sepulchre of poetry.
Even here, there are things that must not be spoken of,
and even that must be done beautifully.