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The Scrambler
After the swim, pleasantly tired,
the sun’s hand gentle on your shoulders,
you sit and enjoy watching the current,
the ripples in their running embroidery:
sea, unshakeable unknowing of intents,
fullness of nimble instants
snapping their fingers and breathing away,
the needle of a smile transpiring in the waves;
your silent
balance of a few moments, doing nothing,
gaze still and sailing
just watching;
but you know it well, the mind’s slightest lurch forward
and the whole crowd is back, the usual tangle
of what to do next, the loud echoes
of what to achieve, the busy goals with curls
of hopes and dreads,

gone is
the rhythm of the surf
enveloping you in its open
regular breaking,
already unfocused
the echo in your heartbeat,
the closest and most distant
heaven’s grinding.
at least it’s a clear day, a breath of blue
is rising down there, rose-veined, a silent,
slow, steady spreading, with rags of dark
like feathers from a still dark horizon:
my view now from the train window.
Thoughts, words, trickling on it
like shadows of fingers,
you, eyes riveted to our garden, their light
calm like dew, but like dew with a sparkling
that can be only urgent, earth eyes
with sailing, staring roots,
-I feel I don’t have much time,
I don’t want to waste any-
and I, trying to dissimulate
what is too crystal clear,
I, trying my best
sidelong glance.
Now I breathe, the light
is opening the land, like clarity,
the quiet now of what was said.
Time is not to waste.
The note of the landscape.
Its pearly nakedness.
Doing Nothing
*Davide Trame lives in Venice, Italy.