Poem of the Week

the sun came out at night

to go for a stroll and the divine crossed

the room. the windows

opened

writing comes from a dialogue

with time: it’s made

of a mirror in which thought

is stripped and no longer knows

itself

in Palermo men are as

strictly trained as horses; or

else they have the shining violence of

flowers

*

it’s more bearable to think of

death than of love

Greek thought explored

all things the way it

explored the islands

when men no longer have

power over women, over whom

will they have it?

*

all Sicily is painted

by the planting

of vines

the shards of grief that a teapot

transforms into inexpressible joy

the Barbary figs ripen

on brilliant mornings, with firm flesh,

with certain steps