Milan was asphalt, liquid asphalt Poem by Milo De Angelis

Milan was asphalt, liquid asphalt. In the desert
of a garden, there was a caress, the melting
penumbra invading the leaves, the hour without censure,
a tear's absolute space. An instant,
balanced between two names, came toward us,
luminous, settling, breathing, on the chest
of the great unknown presence. To die was that
crumbling of lines, we were there and the gesture was everywhere,
we were scattered in the high tensions of summer
we were caught between the bones and the essence of the earth.