Time barrels by, the clovers blow, but everything
Else is broken. The curve, the color is frozen.
The worst is dirt but we keep on chomping,
And occasionally root for a tooth or some fur,
some proof that you and I actually were,
before on a whim we made X decision,
and when I say X, I mean Y too.
How could we have known how dark the dark could be,
While the lake lapped, and the parrot chattered away?
And when the worst eventually happens,
One thinks, “This was not supposed to be”,
but there’s evidence that it’s not our story:
there are other worms in this mound.
And we can’t return to that kind of past,
So imagine that soon some new kind of mask
Tossed round with rocks and stones and grass,
Will emerge in the tunnels under the house.
You can never entirely become what you were
But at least we can toast our future path:
here is wine, here is a tiny worm-glass.”
– Pia Marrella Cisternino