Motet
A. Johnson
You know: I must lose you again and I can't. Like a well aimed shot, I am moved
by every work, every cry and also by the salt breath that overflows
the jetties and brings the dark spring
to Sottoripa.
Town of ironworks and
forests of masts in the dust of evening.
A long hum comes from the open, lacerates like nails on the glass. I search for a lost sign, the only pledge that I had as a gift from you.
And hell is certain.
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