That all this meaning exists and gets lost
is told by memory which vanishes
the ever-changing turmoil that makes you cry
the foaming that shines on top
of some consonants
and by the gaze that attenuates all
of Morandi's bottles, the Base of the World
that erases the fatigue of exhibiting oneself
and the question unanswered,
seven minutes of eternal discordance
and every single line by Giorgio Agamben
- scattered things that have come to combine
gestures of others who are about to leave -
I think of the shoes worn by Vincent
of Alfonso's black figures in procession
in front of the massacre of his innocence
like lieges honoring a king
of the one who clearly preferred not to
of Artaud's missing teeth
I think of Rimbaud, that storm
which has lost its meaning also for me.

Translation: Moira Egan and Damiano Abeni