[They're wandering among the rooms...]
       

They're wandering among the rooms of a house where it
seems that someone will show up, where the shadow of
someone who has just left is still lingering. If you stop and
ask them what, they answer nothing. They calm down only
along the shores. Then their way of saying they're still there
is to pick up a pebble and throw it. But the pure childhood
of the water is shaken by this, shattered all the way to its
sandy bed.

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Copyright © 2018 Franca Mancinelli, John Taylor All rights reserved
from The Little Book of Passage
Bitter Oleander Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission