September poem
For Dominique Le Gendre
How special it is, almost otherworldly
the natural handshake between friends
who spent some days together, for example
listening to Caribbean writers reading,
running from meal and wine only to fly
towards an idea of relation (between worlds,
that is, but people too) which if world-wide as the web
recognizes each gossamer each name,
or an idea of reparation like a flower brought
(between people, that is, but worlds as well)
to recognize to have done wrong;
and to hover above spray, gorges, passes
of languages that do not respect the map,
swell the river of French the lake of English
with an ocean of speech, roots of dialects,
seas of listening and the heard;
to eventually stand up to leave the theatre
liberated like a line of glue, transparent,
caressing the proximity yet ever without fixing it
of the opaque fragments of what is and was,
and if the hands are parting now
on the palms their lines are keeping trace;
now that the theatre the lawn the city are deserted
the last of them together still climb to lake Ritom
among Scottish clouds, Chinese fog
and waiters, marmots from Piora, they walk along water
pick Orelli’s blueberry, Thomas’ willow-herb
then head down on Europe’s second steepest funicular
without holding on they shake
in the precipitous instant overcome
probing the thin air of the valley
probing the thin air of the valley
probing the thin air of the valley
Leventina and Altanca and of the Antilles.
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