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il bambino che ha gettato via il foglio dopo il foglio
candele che si rovesciano obliquamente in latte del pomodoro
chi chiamerà il vento
ciò è l'arsenale
il cielo
sono andati i tre, quelle sorelle rare
non ci è moltitudine, comunque guardato e teso
per allora senza
faccialo rotare giù dal prato
dal sud alla rottura del giorno
ci erano tre nel prato dal ruscello
sia paziente, vita, quando l'amore è al cancello
ma alas, sogni giusti

 



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