HERE I AM Poem by Umberto Fiori

About the puff of dust that rises
between the forsythias and the passing cars,
about this atmosphere of rain, these dead bodies
on television,
look-out calls of crows, sirens
of ambulances,
nobody tells us anything for sure.

The little bar burnt out, the woman
embracing her Dobermann
in the shelter of the gateway there -
the bad or good in them -
we have lost the power to gauge it.

Faces, broken bottles, branches in flower:
the sea in which we're swimming
pours
into our eyes without end.

And yet when they call out to me
I still turn round - you see?
and make an answer.