“A trim please” I said in my best Italian to the stylist, large and mad with tattoos, reinforcing it with finger and thumb in a suitable gesture.
She was over-zealous; lengths of hair carpeted the salon floor. And I was left – from every angle – looking
Like a warning triangle.
Night falls, like a weightless charcoal gauze
Throwing the buildings into bas relief,
Leaving only the sounds of the soft-calling birds
To plot my place on this slumbering earth.
Waking, the sun already high
Touches me with her cool warmth,
And the cloudless sky, blue as the endless ocean,
Stretches into infinity.
Where’s the gym? I must keep trim.
No need to fear – the gym’s right here!
The day dawns, sun bright.
My mellow Spello fellow
basks in its warm light.
Present tense, perfect tense, very tense, makes no sense.
I don’t know, no lo so. Turn to mime, every time.