Fleeting

passage through a landscape,
a place of yesterdays, whens and wheres,
how many words left to declare
in a mouthful of visual shapes.

The other is the one in marginal escape,
in a sort of pronominal fright,
in the body of a gentle breeze,
the other is like a famished site,
a drifting plume, at a distance, or almost.

in his own voyage a strange child,
a message in a bottle
a staring at a florid mottle,
nameless, secret, and wild.

Exile, water imbided on a train,
a postponed party, vertigo, an unfinished play,
the mind always on some one
And I, an other, every one, no one.

(Translated by Charles A. Perrone)