I love my empty life 'cause
also empty are the haunted houses
where the dead saunter around
with breeze-like feet and voices
of drizzle tapping on the windowpanes.
In the lounge of my empty life
I am sitting on a bidet of lapislazuli
reading Joyce surrounded by unicorns
that mistook my self for the Virgin:
they approach and sip dewdrops
in the mossy well of my hands.
I pet their horns of erect whiteness.
The lounge of my empty life is infinite
like the Universe and Circe's laughter.
It has no walls but the sea and the horizon.
It has no light but glowworms
and your eyes, Maria.
Lumière mariale
It has no windows but words
overlooking ravines
where cranes, bats and sozzled angels
alight on.
Love my empty life where gracefully
I riff on the piano without knowing
how to play it... And listen to myself
as if it was a Beethoven's sonata:
a brief sonata of violet waves
breaking into the
deserts of vast eternity.
