Almost (real) winter

It’s outpouring, with the red tear shaped
like the non hedged candle on the marble
subdued to the fall rain.
Out there, the weather of the faded winter.
The non-sipped water gets dusty
on the table blackened by fire.
My eyes, screened by the absence
of a regular breath in the bed.
Unmade, and the tired lusts left undefended,
I bag my body and the shameless
trajectories that hit in the centre of the open
eyes waiting for the real winter
And the blankets do not know, wrapping
the bow-legged under the dead weight
of a puff orphan of the lips
that were wrapping me with sculpted puffs
Chapped, the thoughts unwrap
doubts in shape of a wise novel;
I do not even tremble, slowly worn out
by incrustations of exhausted time.
Paolo Graziano
Pictured: Atto Sospeso, a photo work by Stefania Bonatelli, Italy

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