talora ci si aspetta
di scoprire uno sbaglio di Natura,
il punto morto del mondo, l'anello che non tiene,
il filo da disbrogliare che finalmente ci metta
nel mezzo di una verità.
- Eugenio Montale
To pull the morning in
smoothly, past the barb on the wire
each of us brought
fragments of blue in plantpots.
All that could be wild in this tame city
was reserved for us inside a patch of sun:
in turgid leaves nervously grown;
in blades of grass grating our ankles.
It will return the life to us, one day –
or so we told ourselves.
More comforting than thinking:
Time, or maybe Nature,
is blowing in the same direction.
What we capitalize remains abstract.
That is why
if one of us gets caught on the brambles,
we leave the foliage on their clothes:
a storm transformed into a garden.
More comforting than leaning
out of windows, in a gown.
To be stripped off like bloom
on the branches of patience.