In the end, there is always a lake.
This time surrounded by curves
of mountains,
Their elegance embody an image
of your sunlit dark-hair –
Such are the noons here,
on Garda.
Where “time is coming out of water”,
I’m slowly learning the rhythm
of this little stretch of aqua,
of the eyes and the palms
that inhabit this vacuum.
Their language seems to predate all
That I’ve known.
