Old
man, still asthmatic?
talks
at his kitchen table
Immersion
in air of Veneto
eyes
concentrated on thought
5
minutes 27 seconds of film
kicks
in at the click of the Pointer
Poppies
profusion of sanguinity
he
says, our own nature advances where?
Or
the 1 hour 25 minutes 7 seconds
behind
bird-like microphones
Multiplicity
is a romance,
he
says, our words turn into dream moments
Set
between at table literary ladies
hauteur
rhymes with auteur
But
he reaches unassumingly
for
words to transfix wounded landscape
One
what is one what is one
to
do, he says, out here in the marches?
His
eyes don’t care for the lens
don’t
see us at cable-end years apart
We
want more signs but see instead
his
eyes thinking as he speaks of roads
Of
another war, the roads divide,
he
says, the present is made of remembers
Or
this video 18 minutes
younger
in black and white
Reading
in the open air of beauty
and
beauty’s checks and balances
His
hair gets blown about
a
slight breeze coming from the alps
It
is too exhausting
his
concentrated Italian, his arcane jokes
Breathing
quietly before Microsoft
we
lose concentration
Wonder
what it was got lost in translation
at
a loss as to what to leave in Comments
Or
watch Treviso church semi-quiet in sunlight
grieving
widow? Perplexed publishers?
Roman
robes go through their motions
on
Mute the priest says the right things
Bustle
of Fiats outside on a new day
that
is an old film
Old
ago as the year before last
12
minutes 20 seconds
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