You drag your old apartment through the mud
imagining the surplus of regrets segmenting the days
reaching back to capture the elements of then
fragmented into painful shards . . .
Odysseyites at the foot of your bed await direction
again overwhelmed by the onlookers
brought in to witness your de-accessioning . . .
The wood stove crackles its befuddlement . . .
It has been cued, as have others, from childhood memories . . .
This is happening as predicted
choreographed by backers as a concession
to the chamber group whose notes have taken to the air . . .
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| Antonio Palmerini |