Tuesday, April 14, 2015

The Postman

The postman you had befriended
Gathers dry leaves now and
Sings an unfamiliar tune to himself

I’m looking for sustenance in end-rhymes
I’ve bought sleep, a broken moon, wicker chairs
Wondering how long it will be to tranquility

The lake whose shores you used to wander on
Is as dry as a stone which I’ve put in a ring
In the worthless hope that my luck will turn

Colour-coordinated scraps of flattery in the morning
Solitary walks in the afternoon… How will I
Write you letters in my language anymore

The city air is a bilious green, the trees, poisonous
I refer to writing as a bad habit now
Breaking old glass panes with new pebbles

Only an enchanted madman, lazy, gaunt
Gathering dry leaves all day
The postman you had befriended

(After watching Il Postino)

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