Ciclo DCXXXVII

The candle gutters; the canal outside holds the last orange of the west like a held breath. In its reflection, the smallest fish—a silver dart—cuts upward, and for a single instant the water is not water but moving sky. Then the ripples erase it, and the canal is only canal again, dark and patient. Come il pensiero che si dissolve prima che la mano lo possa scrivere.