Milan was asphalt, liquid asphalt

Milan was asphalt, liquid asphalt. In the desert
of a garden, there was a caress, the melting
penumbra invading the leaves, the hour without censure,
a tear’s absolute space. An instant,
balanced between two names, came toward us,
luminous, settling, breathing, on the chest
of the great unknown presence. To die was that
crumbling of lines, we were there and the gesture was everywhere,
we were scattered in the high tensions of summer
we were caught between the bones and the essence of the earth.

Milan was asphalt, liquid asphalt

Milano era asfalto, asfalto liquefatto. Nel deserto
di un giardino avvenne la carezza, la penombra
addolcita che invase le foglie, ora senza giudizio,
spazio assoluto di una lacrima. Un istante
in equilibrio tra due nomi avanzò verso di noi,
si fece luminoso, si posò respirando sul petto,
sulla grande presenza sconosciuta. Morire fu quello
sbriciolarsi delle linee, noi lì e il gesto ovunque,
noi dispersi nelle supreme tensioni dell’estate,
noi tra le ossa e l’essenza della terra.