A gentle roll-off. The moribund sea erodes the foundations. This town is exhausting.
Buildings float like slabs, chased by the winds;
the room is filled with dust and anxiety.
A voice is altering the stillness: bitter, sharp.
(Friendship among artists is frail, when based on aesthetic theories).
– Sixty art pieces. And nothing. Neither a shelter nor a shrine, a prison, a nightmare, a hole in the ground to tell where the journey will end!
Light’s too yellow to argue like this, at the window
the sun is touching the sea, getting its temperature.
where the journey will end
The picture in the frame, a beach in Stromboli, heads on the sand. A tepid smile.
No, indeed. Not even here, but
I didn’t know we were lost.