Tuesday, October 25, 2005

Davide Trame


It has grown well in the yard,
the long boughs brushing the wall
at the slight breath of air.
The hush of sunlight’s
constant leaves.
In the night’s dry wind
it has flattened down
the hurting crests of your thought.
Cleansed now, at dawn,
you want the assisting fronds
to follow you
and keep swaying through the day:
Eyelashes of a mighty
blinking stare, to secure
the rhythm of silence,
gold in a persistent, soft scratch
making the spinning word-crowds
break up.


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