***
I am freeing my palms,
as the rain flows often
onto Brussels –
unceremoniously
and with no bounds.
At this magic moment
of our Earthly existence,
I give you not only my hands,
but also my overcoat,
my Anna Rizzo Firenze hat,
my high gloss black shoes,
and my bracelet – as well.
I finally let my hands rain.
I let them lock the door.
I let them set the heater on,
that your ink and fingers
won’t freeze,
and that you can write and touch me without
gloves on.
I let my hands rain upon your
trembling
silencio.
My heart just missed a beat.
I let my hands rain over
your burning
typemachine.
I let my hands rain
the Russian rain
upon your
freeing Da Vinci palms.
The Russian Rain
over Da Vinci palms!
The rain
that watered Tarkovsky’s characters,
among which the most memorable
are:
the rain over the burning house
observed by children
under the shower,
and the rain that floods the hotel room
in “Nostalgia”.
I let my hands rain inside the
building
where we slowly
are starting off
towards the ceiling,
levitating
in a tandem –
in a symmetry
of open everything,
reminiscent of the famous
L’Uomo Vitruviano –
fitting into both
the circles and the squares of each other,
seeming to fly
but standing firmly
on the ground
under this thick rain
dripping from our palms…
