Proceeds mute, the thought on a lake
that feels like salt
and gray stupor.
It ‘s the sparrow acute:
drives to a house on the horizon shore,
enters a room
where fatigued dancers are asleep,
then another one
where a child his ball throws
in the short sky of a grim drawing room.
And rooms, more rooms of silence
that means to be a headlong throw.
Here on Lake Como shore,
who am I but the brute sparrow
flustered by the serious minute,
heavy with bore yet crazy with history?

Copyright 2000 by Lorenzo Vantaggiato