You notice the nose: webbed veins spritzed
with little flicks of red, purple blotches
daubed with a palette-knife, broken ends
where blood-vessels gave up the ghost.

Fascinated by the priest’s teeth I don’t realise
I’m kicking the pew in front with a restless foot
until someone taps me sharply on the knee.

In Italian I have no inner life.
With no past or future tense
My needs are immediate.

rose is thirsty
rose senses water
rose root rummages in the earth
rose root punctures lung and frontal lobe
rose stem is a green straw sucking

Pigeons have invaded the garden, two then four, then a flock.
They roost in the apple tree to nest, reconnoitre or mate
 
ignore my sorties to deter them and shit without stint
on patio and herb bed, foul lovely hyssop and thyme.

What matters now is the feast of this survival.
The glory of our own light, black light.
 
Look at us: the deeper the root, the sweeter the juice.
Glory of the blacker berry, split wide open to the sun.

the sky met the water where the birds met the fish

the sky met the water where the fish met the birds

the sky met the birds where the water met the fish

Impotent in family life and ineffectual at work,
sometimes he would spend a full quarter-hour
just circulating the mini-roundabout on his moped,
dizzy from the power of blocking everyone else.