The rewrite, darker than riddles, upends you . . .
Is this how it is? . . .
You return to your room
and the tented books
and your search for a common theme
in the words of the dead . . .
The voices continue . . .
The feeling of motionlessness . . . again . . .
Did you think the misunderstanding had settled
after that morning in the coffee shop
when you asked about the book? . . .
Turn the page . . .
Read . . . Please! . . .
Go through the motions . . .
The chat was inevitable . . . Insignificant . . .
The font a diversion
from long ago summer evenings . . .
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| Antonio Palmerini |