18 aprile 2015

In Which Forest

The sky was green with cold between the pine needles
and no one’s around, the snow’s suspended moisture
weaves itself into the smell of wet clothes,
you gripped the axe’s handle, forever poised
to make a mark, three asterisks, initials and a date
and the dignity of your hands bled out into sweetness,
now, between dust and dominion, where you met
yourself in who knows which forest of my eyes
when you turned to me and said, god, how much sun,
and so far off, so other, how steadily each day
wrings the heart and goes its separate way.



Pierluigi Cappello




 
Muffi&Zazza - photo by Mats&Muffi

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