DEDICATION: 4. Poem by Gian Mario Villalta

If really a web of thoughts
and time is that which ties us,
what does this iron dig
in a tissue that's so light?

Thready voice, thread of breath
only keep them close.
Wool thread, milk thread
sew the white of the trees
and the fragile shadows of dawn all the way to the sound
of the water running, the uneven whispering of silverware
Copper thread - light!
Iron thread - twist!
Of this coming day on the wrists
leave a sign, on the ankles, tighten
where the cold invades.
A thread of phrases that bring the comfort
of a common stupidity.
Thread you who lose the number, the comparison
of places and seasons, that light
that burns our photos,
the shape of the forehead and the fingers
in my thoughts, thread
of blood, thread of cells, helix,
here: hands out to see
where the burn courts the metal,
where it is rough, broken
the junction of the sky and the house:
I was ashamed of my dialect,
I was ashamed of the Italian language -
of having live seed inside me
mute broken thread of darkness -
darker and darker inside the breath