THE COLLEGE HILL INDEPENDENT


The End (an agenda)

by by Belle Cushing

Alessandro De Francesco

Translated from the Italian by Belle Cushing

tell me how i could tell you

that in those days i wasn’t there

that the tape was turning in vain

and a bend was nesting

under the covers

 

we brandished the telephone   remember

we stopped looking

 

 

at each activation of word in the darkness

i see a portion of the river in motion

illuminated by the signs and streetlamps

makes little twisters

flows in all directions

 

somewhere else i was stretched out on the ground

emitting incomprehensible wails

 

after she left i took the elevator

it banged gently against the sides

kept going down even

after the 0 floor blinked

 

i wonder if it had kept going

what would have happened    would i

maybe have rediscovered

the toy car

lost in another city

while i pushed back childhood into the grass

 

consciousness will not be granted

we inject ourselves with sequence shots

shooting a film already been cut

in others’ bodies

cutting into a curdled emulsion

 

sometimes the pain appears

as an illegible presence        a bottomless surface

 

   

 

at this point i would be framed

 

   

 

from above        standing before you

in the half-light

alone

in cross-section

behind the shutters in the grass alone

standing before you

 

you were observed by a form

in the window of the building opposite

it was a bag atop a wardrobe

that to us was the face of a woman

 

lying in the dark       in the bed of another city

i saw on the backs of my eyelids

a neck stretched out of proportion

and on top an alien face with no expression

 

in the glass table

i watch the clouds

reflected upside down

city skies

still glow even at night

 

but in a non-euclidean geometry         in a curvilinear space

you would and would not be here with me our hands would meet

in a room without eyes        the words

would appear framed in a close up

to tell us finally with clarity

when we got lost

 

every concept was shaken like a tree

in the dark there were openings

in the summer

everything was red everything calm

 

our film would be titled

on going home

it would be unraveled on infinite planes

and as leading actors

departure zones

a lampshade its plug stuck in the grass

and the letters of my name

written on the pages of your agenda

 

but at one single sentence

look i have to go to know i am real

things became distanced

the pear’s porous skin         (and so it had to be)

did not hold