Movement like assonance

I’ve read
            the birds’ migration east to west

while they carved the earth’s chest seen from above. Their scalpels

black like eyeliners on the eyes of those who inhabit the urban commas.

How will we manage to leave behind a country
            if tomorrow already takes from us an arm or a tongue today? In my ears,

I’m still on the phone, talking to someone who burnt its own distances
            in the incinerator of a time zone.

They say that we’ll go as if we had never pushed ourselves
further than a green neighborhood mouth. As far as you may know,
            experience is a short circuit of time which collapses
each time a foot supports a rewind button.

                        If I line my eyes with eyeliner,
I’ll be among those guinea pigs for birds that never left. Their beaks hold
something of the carcasses; two heads sprung like water
open the westward passage. A ghost programs the coveted body.

Animals don’t quote themselves in writing down the days. This life is just
death happening leniently. The madness of believing in waiting.
That nothing is
            as we’ve left it. That everything is yet to happen.

But I happen – precisely each time I walk down the stairs
            like the clenched teeth of a stern mother.
I cried so hard that I burst out laughing.
            I laughed so hard that I went up
                        the basement of tears.

Then the eyeliner smears like an illusion.
            A bird unwrapped the West with a black scalpel.

Alessandro Vitali was born and is resident in Macerata. He has a degree in Anthropology and Social Research from the University of Siena. Previously, he studied Modern Literature at the University of Macerata. Currently, he writes poems, dramaturgies and short stories. He has also participated in some collective painting exhibitions in Rome and Palermo. He works as a teacher in Italy.

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