I see your image always on the foreground
Of my morning walks, my attic sunsets,
All my verses are as much for you
As for the snow and seas.
Quite evenings at home are not –
Malaise when you are further than my skyline.
Life with you away
Is a directionless kinetics,
The only energising force
Are letters –
Their possession and their lack.
I repicture beaches
We’ve swam together,
Your melancholy put in charcoal, Greek earth or horta –
Sketches that make us human,
A return to one small bedroom
Of the childhood,
A multiplicity of hopings,
Underneath my silence and obedience
In waves of words,
In Dolomites of passion.
Anything worth having
Can NOT be owned.
I arrange your letters and wash bed linens.
Candle flakes are frosted liberally
On the kitchen table.
Plants are entrusted to my neighbours
Only in retrospect it’s possible to measure
The strength and quality of longing
For you, my dear,
Also – the inconsistency of habits of mine,
My faithfulness to memories
Of you surrounded by kittens,
By windows in Monemvasia.
I keep your postcards under my pillow
They are my first ‘want’,
Always on the foreground
Of my dreams.