POEM

 

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.