Not the cricket, but the cat
on the hearth, shining
household god of your scattered clan,

Those who dig up the past don’t need to be told
that hardly the millionth of a second

A look in the mirror is enough
to convince us we’re someone else.

Concerning the universe, the city of God,
we know very little.

People talk and talk more
about black holes.

When I enter the cemetery
of San Felice a Ema
I have to go past many tombstones

Winter trees cough like old men
about death’s white nightmares
while the rain talks in Latin.