Rufo Quintavalle

Because the night

Because the night
surrounds us,
because the cold
has got up
through our feet,
because the street
curves gently,
because in the dark
neon and an odor
of felt, because
the cellar door,
because the night,
despite the heart's
imperative, thins,
because the distant
sky, the stairwell,
because the boat,
the shifty moon,
because the pollen
is a dusty glove
on tarmac, because
the crab is inside
out, because want
warmth, comfort
despair, hessian
and a smell of clay
in rain, because,
despite it all,
a pillow, despite
the streetlights
sleep, despite
the jackhammers
dawn, because
the night, because
the hell of appetite,
because the damp
sand on an empty
beach, because
a quickening, as if
that were enough,
is enough, because,
despite it all,
a lumbering sound,
an odor of fat
on the foggy air,
smoke, the smell
of cows, of grass,
of prehistoric
ferns, because,
despite it all,
a moon like
a membrane, rubber
valve through which
the weather comes,
because the cold,
because the pull
of underearth,
because the endless
weather, because,
despite it all
despite it all
the weather.