Here I am

Of the puff of dust rising

between the forsythia and the cars,

of this rainy air, of these deads

at the television,

call of crows, ambulance


no one reassure us.

Of the devastated small bar, of a woman

hugging her doberman, here, in the shade 

of the portal – for their better, for their worse –

we have lost the measure.

Faces, broken bottles, flowering branches: 

the sea we swim in falls into our bottomless eyes.

Yet when they call me 

I still face – see? –And I answer.

Umberto Fiori (Italia, 1949, from La bella vista, 2002, Marcos Y Marcos, translated by Slow Words)

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