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