The ticking from the wall
is the inner hue of the present,
its regular, reverberating glow.
The space of a waiting room
with light coughs and small talk,
an engine somewhere outside
a counterpoint to the rhythm in the room,
the horizon’s unveiled voice.
And a sunbeam carrying inside
the rustling from the street,
a dusty golden stripe on the floor tiles.
The ticking reminds you
of prayer and forbearance
and the air’s stare, its quiet omnipresence.
A light brown rhythm spangled
with earth’s breath and shadows
and the instants’ nakedness
whose stare scares like the mirror’s.
The hands moving imperceptibly
make you think of their absence
like the white of the empty dial
in the blinding sunlight on the tower.
So you stick to the ticking
with slight anxiety.
Now you shift your leg
just too suddenly
and the dog, your friend,
raises his ears
and stares straight at you
A FIELD OF GRASS
April spacing light. Sun-swept green.
The thin tight blades glittering.
The glee of the little bold fists.
You know the neat stare,
it defeats at once
the furrows in your irises,
the sediments left
by barely disguised habits.
The sheer will of what’s just born
cuts through you.
Folds of wishes and talks,
all useless now.
The same as when you are stared at
by a child,
captured by what is all eyes:
nothing to interpret in their light,
just unbounded surprise,
a sudden rough empty sky
in which breathing is the longing
to spread and fade
and the space of a breath
is more than enough to know it.
For some of us heaven can be a parenthesis
in the normal world of the fathers,
in the hazy, sleepy, workaday give-and-take.
It can be one hour in a meadow
suddenly plunged into the heart of spring.
In the already well advanced
busy rustling of the grass,
veins among veins scurrying and spreading,
the well-known sea of a plain beyond the hedge-
or beyond the stinging heat of an electric
the sea where drowning means finding the chord
of the most perfect breath.
We were walking on a path in the green,
earth perspiring, speckles of sunlight
like lizards in between our steps,
the garlic flowers a pouring of laughing sap,
and a torrent with the blurring stare of its
It was then that I asked you about the bees,
if you were sensing them in their encircling
the gold and reddened brown, irises swarming,
the sound of a gaze at one with talk and
it was actually a cloud of gnats we were waving
away from our faces but it was the bees’ breath
that was pulsing around with enveloping
at one with your hand on my shoulder, our words’
and the thoughts’ hush we were striving for.
Sitting on the bench in the heat of the sun,
watching the meadow with the hills on the
and a strewn cloud of trees in bloom
I sensed heaven in its ages of lingering
and slipping at once through infinite fingers.
Davide Trame is an
Italian teacher of English, born and living in
Venice-Italy, writing poems exclusively in
English since 1993, they have been published in
around two hundred literary magazines since
1999, in U.K, U.S. and elsewhere.