THESE ARE OUR SEEDS
My little fingers inside watermelon
I ask my body to loosen up dressed casually
then when he comes back tired at home
I'll ask him to take a photo at our sweat and watermelon rind
Ad Ostia non ci andrei per il mare;
neanche per Suburra.
Ci andrei per leggere Sylvia Plath,
con il Panico di Johnny e
la Bibbia. Però degli incubi.
closing the restaurant
I'm wearing my new socks
your phone is turned off
I hope you're at least sleeping
in the city that I warm like the smoke of the drawer