July 1998
searching the recesses of memory winding find the clue of a thin silver ribbon;
go up with him, opal, pearls
memories.
The curvature of the spheres deformed faces, ridiculous
still visible on the bodies,
too thin.
Every ball pauses and repeats:
find always the same gestures in response to identical requests
spoken by different lips,
gestures not to disappoint, but never thrown
dreams crumpled,
constantly present with their petulant insistence.
I thought my life might give more, but the pearls
tell me that I had very little and I took
.
And so I find myself looking for me in pathetic
adventures,
shadows of reality,
in a desperate and futile attempt to tell me that
outcome.
The last pearl rising
has only two small figures laughing
so small as not to lend itself to any curvature,
so small as not to alter reality, so bright
to leave me breathless,
large enough to offer me a future.
