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