To M.

Don’t howl, waves, God’s sleeping tight,
Since dawn he’s been breaking bread
With the shores of an endless hope,
Your heavenly vault coated in blue
In brisk efficiency by amateurish hands
Where His exhaustion births poems, questions,
Tangles of absence, or farewells,
Those nights shaking with a hidden blue,
As the green which hope looks besprinkled with
Worn-out hearts and stares
Of words stalking us, of a silence belting us,
When the eternal breath calls us
To chance remarks, or asides set in craven defiance-
Point is, sometimes poems remind you
Of theorems, statement, hypothesis, conclusion,
Then they move, and deep dive underground
To the bluest secrets of the earth,
Or glide upwards to the sky’s blue contrivance
Where unhoused souls just make do
With clouds, stars, waves, her lonely harbingers
Of survival, poetry behind outcrops
In blue, and a shy longing for scores
On a piano, white shelves, the fittest graves
To many books, or to nomadic souls,
Whenever God self- helps
Through unyielding twilights, and a raiding infinite
So very akin to her wild baptisteries.

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Born in Italy some decades ago, Gabriella Garofalo fell in love with the English language at six, started writing poems (in Italian) at six, and is the author of these books: “Lo sguardo di Orfeo”; “L’inverno di vetro”; “Di altre stelle polari”; “Casa di erba”; “Blue Branches”; “ A Blue Soul”, “After The Blue Rush”.