The Paris Review ha una newsletter deliziosa con una poesia al giorno. Una pausa di freschezza.
L’ultima, oggi, dal titolo Evidence:
Blue is the evidence of what I do,
the lies I’ll leave behind, no more, no less.
This is the past, and so it must be true.
This stack of DVDs, of overdue
pornography, the titles meaningless:
blue is the evidence of what I do.
This is the coat from Saks Fifth Avenue,
charged to my old American Express—
this is the past, and so it must be true
that once I loved this wretched shade of blue,
I dreamed of men whom I could not impress.
Blue is the evidence of what I do,
the letter here that ends in I love you.
My prose was from the heart, my heart a mess.
This is the past, and so it must be true
I lacked the guts … Continua a leggere
