Journal of Italian Translation

Piazza Nicolai-Merwin-Lecomte-Rosselli-Bigon
Trace of Sulphur
Say yes, say you believe.
The half-lie scratches insistently aware
of its falsehood (me you and the others).
You pronounce the promise:
it’s just a screen devoid of substance
not even a veil.
Brick on brick you build
the invisible castle
filled with handles and latches.
Not even one cloud.
a voice creaking with malice
leaves only traces of sulphur
(hooves on the earth
after the rain, an aroma of
humus and shit in the air).
What to believe in if all is smoke
that pertains to pale longitudes
to implausible structures
like eddies in the storms?
A fetish of dust hangs behind.
A Vortex of Mirrors
It’s not a wolf’s howling
that claws at the door,
nor the dove’s mourning
flying across the shattered
anvil. A raven’s dive
collapses the calm but
won’t demolish the roots.
The musical touch signals
no more than a sickened note
dissonance that does not frighten
the donkey, its bray makes no sense
even if nightly the moon
lights up its pelt.
In the end what can happen?
Nothing. It’s only a vortex
of mirrors flaying the air.
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