It doesn’t sound, rough up, but it lasts.

The rooms grow smaller

and in the paddocks

the kid’s rage vents.

In the yellow unease of meadows, mouth closed.

The nocturnal and sorry murderers’ fingers stare at

sequences of spirits flying with open asses

to a sweetest massacre.

The owl for some dead is a flower.

Alberto Pellegatta (Italy, 1978-)

(translation by Diana Marrone, Slow Words)

Image cover: outback, by DM

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