Davide Trame


In the evening, the light still lasting,
I hear you say they have come,
it is as if you were laying down
the most natural gift,
I catch that fulfilled vein,
that glad finality in your voice.
So they have come
and you are gazing above, I’m sure,
closing the windows,
and an echo of glass panes vibrates in the house,
the sky flashes in frames upon the walls.
And I become at once aware
of the streaming shrieks outside,
the sweeping pinpointed cries
at one with the evening breath.
I glimpse the glistening shots of black,
their dashing off in the dusk, couples
in a frenzy running after each other,
the lithe scythes of wings skirmishing
spacing in the dim blue air,
spacing in the mirror of our gaze.

And spreading
the vast space we most need
just now when the light is declining
while we stare at the opposite shore,
our dread mellowed at dusk by wonder
seeing the neatness of the ochre sand
and further on the line of new grass
spangled with the meek bounty of the geraniums,
our borders stilled by this busy calm overhead,
the interlacing we want before sleep
to appease the unknown.