Levels Poem by Stefano Dal Bianco

When I lie down on the carpet in the hall and look up, sometimes there is a fly
sometimes a gnat that in flying traces strangely geometric trajectories, suddenly and
continuously turning at a usually acute angle, and what is stranger is that everything
happens on the same virtual level: the one parallel to the ceiling and to the
pavement on which I lie.

I don't know why it does that. Maybe because it finds its food this way, but why
always only in two dimensions, without using space?

It's really enough for it,
and I too live on a level, the fourth floor,
I live in my slice of air,
I survive and when I want to
I look and breathe out of the window.

In fact, I've bought a carpet
and sometimes I have to lie down on it,
otherwise my horizon escapes me.

Translation: 2004, Gabriele Poole