weekend

People are confusing and sad and always hiding

in their little snail shells, bellies pressed

down to the floor. My shell is a bottle I found

upside-down in a swamp.

What are we and where are we going? I might ask

if I thought an answer would come, but no one knows.

[I did not know what I was saying goodbye to.]

What makes me less beautiful?

You, love, walked out of the mist,

wrapped your arms around me

and left while I slept. Your presence,

your existence gives me hope.

What will we regret next year?

M.C. Escher

The Infinite

by Giacomo Leopardi

This lonely knoll was ever dear to me

and this hedgerow that hides from view

so large a part of he remote horizon.

But as I sit and gaze my thought conceive

intermediate spaces lying beyond

and supernatural silences

and profoundest calm, until my heart

almost becomes dismayed. And as I hear

the wind come rustling through these leaves,

I find myself comparing to this voice

that infinite silence: and I recall eternity

and all the ages that are dead

and the living presence and its sounds. And so

in this immensity my thought is drowned:

and in this sea is foundering sweet to me.

– Translated from the Italian by Jean-Pierre Barricelli