THE CIRCUS OF OURS Poem by Gabriele Frasca

it might be the flesh with its sizzling
or the muffled thud with which breath lies down
to then suck more of the other I
which had you long time it is in the ample
substance that feed and devours you
yet you hear sounds nothing of you
is silent nothing holds not even the dullest
hour in this continuous noise
as of babbling that implores
to stay listening to your heart
for what they told you to keep
ready for the raucous call of the ringmaster
of the uncertain borders
where each cage opens unto another cage
and the stands remain desert
on the arena where the sand whirls
to the steps of those freaks
each deformed by its own rage
in which you discern your own and the fear
of being precisely like them
in search for a remedy if the cure
does not exist if there is no form or at least a chorus
capable of curbing the words
that drive something like a hole in the head
where the thread of the bobbins passes through
that weave the voices of life
in a meaningless rosary of throats
which prays crumpled between the fingers
that a grain will pop out and it'll be the exit