DEDICATION: 1 Poem by Gian Mario Villalta

" . . .

What love, that of the dead, what desire

it digs inside
And neither the voice, his face, nothing.
What does it erase . . . detach . . . still nothing.

Today, too, while it rained, I opened the doors wide
and all the windows of the house, to make room
t o m a k e r o o m - for what?

Only noise, numbers, or light that moves on the clothes-line
and rapidly crosses the gravel.
Beyond the infection colored fence: asphalt, green wood.

The sky loses height, space.
The giving in
one word at a time.