Whoever has no house now, will never have one.
Whoever is alone will stay alone,
will sit, read, write long letters through the evening,
and wander along the boulevards, up and down,
restlessly, . . .
- Rainer Maria Rilke, Autumn Day
Your enthusiasm follows the plot of matching neckties.
I would like to have thought otherwise
but you unfold as expected
as items on a grocery list
which falls out of your pocket
as you bend into your seductions
connecting the dots between us.
The distance halved again and again and again.
The point lost among footnotes.
The letter-writer writing long letters into the night,
struck inarticulate, caught off-guard,
wandering the boulevards, up and down, restlessly.
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| Paolo Zerbini |