your ailing heart and your criminal eyes

Si dice che ogni persona è un’isola, e non è vero, ogni persona è un silenzio, questo sì, un silenzio, ciascuna con il proprio silenzio, ciascuna con il silenzio che è.

Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake                                                       and dress them in warm clothes again.         How it was late, and no one could sleep, the horses running until they forget that they are horses.                   It’s not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere,         it’s more like a song on a policeman’s radio,                 how we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the days were bright red, and every time we kissed there was another apple                                                                                       to slice into pieces. Look at the light through the windowpane. That means it’s noon, that means         we’re inconsolable.                               Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us. These, our bodies, possessed by light.                                                                Tell me we’ll never get used to it.