This wall of nothing, all over.
Back then it meant a lot.
On the beach in the winter afternoons
we were things waiting to be seen,
voices in their own pulsing desert.
Our cloaks in the damp, reservoirs of whispers,
our gaze in the early dark busy with pearls.
And the wet sand, our footprints, our words,
invisible bees working on shining swords.
Copyright 2005, Davide Trame
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