sculpture in a living wood

 

i still fear heavy furniture particularly that made of black polished rotten wood ... i wouldn’t visit anymore museums or antiquity houses even if they had no mirrors a sad song for a blue heart grows between me and the round burnt clay ... i don’t admire anymore clavichords with encrusted roses the two inherited paintings are blaming me for everything i couldn’t forget ... one day the furniture started to crackle as if it were a mad crickets’ song in full sunshine ... with my heart bumping from stop to stop i ran in the street but the clouds didn’t come to be let me run barefooted to fall like a discharged lightning in the gutter’s mud ...

 

so many ant hills and so many wild beehives were built in my marrow ... i stay underneath sighing heavily and i see i feel through my fingertips their march from corner to corner ... i never got along with insects it is my fault ... except for the summertime butterflies and at most dragonflies weddings or autumn ladybugs ... lately i found i can speak the mites’ language i wake up at night if one of them climbs over my bed i can predict every newcomer regardless of its size ... maybe my blood is like old wine now and my heart measures the time along with the insects until the earth takes a rest in winter ... and in march even if it is on annunciation day the same cross will weigh on our backs the same chain of wild weaknesses ties us to the living forest where trees fall on their feet ...

 

i understood late that between me and the moon there is only one acrobatic vault in a spider’s web ... much too late ...