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


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