There’s in the short froth of a palpitation
a God waiting like a chrysalis
creating the waves’ host
on which lazes my name
summer dust on figs are words
when sunset makes them red-hot by pulp
at the sunset’s forgiveness where the silence salt,
the shore burnt like skin smelling Malvasia
the scorching stones at the olives’ bottom
they sigh like the heart’s untamed rings,
when the fishermen offshore suspend the nostalgia of the sea
and undo the distance from who we let go
in the line of the horizon
so many stories tell the rocks,
some get caught on the nets,
other collected on the water’s edge like shells,
who smells them is a wet snout of a dog
or the crying in which was dried out a dream.
My city is sleeping.
The pain washed by the seaweeds at the fan of Mistral.
I’m counting all my happinesses
on the noise’s end,
while a seagull is carring love affairs in dialect,
and the sign of the cross a lucky charm.