A garden between low walls, bright, Made of dry grass and a light that slowly bakes The ground below. The light smells of sea. You breathe that grass. You touch your hair And shake out the memory of grass.

                                I have seen ripe

Fruit dropping thickly on remembered grass with a soft Thudding. So too the pulsing of the blood Surprises even you. You move your head As though a miracle of air had happened around you, And the miracle is you. Your eyes have a savor Like the heat of memory.

                                You listen.

You listen to the words, but they barely graze you. Your face has a radiance of thought that shines Around your shoulders, like light from the sea. The silence In your face touches the heart with a soft Thud, exuding drop by drop, Like fruit that fell here years ago, an old pain still.

Translanted from the Italian by Arrowsmith