Letter to Her Brother
In the tombs orgies go on by themselves
if the white images are alone,
I with
my parenthesis that was not supposed to last
the notebooks
of my minds wrapped up in your winter coat
exploitation
at its peak: to you I send
these brief charges, no
explanation can make you keep your time
if the dance tune is this extinguished crater.
*
I do not want
to write in the far away mountain
anything but works about me:
come with me and I’ll map hell for you.
Amelia Rosselli (1930 – 1996)