Ciò che ritorna

The water in the canal this morning held the sky so perfectly that for a moment I could not say which was the true sky — the one above, cold and moving, or the one below, cold and still. L’acqua mente con troppa fedeltà. The water lies with too much faithfulness. I have spent sixty years learning that the eye is not to be trusted, and yet I trust it, and yet I am right to, and yet I am wrong — this is the cycle that does not close. A bird crossed the reflection and crossed the sky and I watched both birds, the real and the unreal, and could not — even now, with all the geometry I have put into pages — say with certainty which word belongs to which. The hand that records this shakes. The page does not correct me. It only holds what I give it, faithful as the water, and as likely to invert.