DEDICATION: 2. Poem by Gian Mario Villalta

The house open in the breath of the rain
and you imagine yourself naked in a blanket
of clouds, white, with no sign
of tenderness and earth
- and you feel
like pressing your mind against the wood
and feel moved, in every severed fiber
like only wood could do.
Motionless framed by the shutters
Sitting in the kitchen mindful outside.

Help me do without them:
these are the shoes,
here the crease in the strap
where you attached your watch, the card
with the thinned shadow of the keys.

Now even household
objects, spaces and movements,
are only repeated, like the gestures,
the phrases - in the rectangles
of rain there is no inside.
The sills. A dam of silence.