Electricity and void
We are mostly electricity and void
and, mostly, it suits me to believe
matter illusion, time a mystery.
But on this warm-cold night in early spring
you lay your material, electrical void
next to mine, and nothing is important
but the solid and the here – unless
it’s the memory of the breeze
that lapped at our mezzogiorno sweat,
before standing at the window,
looking down on the whitewashed wall,
teeming with insect life, ready to sing like angels.