CHINNING Poem by Umberto Fiori

If someone in the street
shouts at me: "What was that you said?",
stops his motorbike, gets off, runs to catch me,
puts his claws on my collar,
it means they don't fall into the void
when someone says them, the words
somewhere are heard.

I'm seen then: I am not invisible.
I'm not alone, if my head-buttings
find a chin. If the face is sore
and the teeth taste of blood
then it's true: there is a place
where all of us are present.

And it is there that every moment
I wait for you.