Slipping in and above cuts mid-streets as if in boats that float mid-stream.
Wind catches where windows can’t be fully closed.
There’s the rattle and
shakes like we
may come off
I can’t speak it like it should be said.
Something I can’t remember. A word. The Italian keeps coming through
and I can’t remember that either.
Who fed me my first language, then cut it off?
Why did I dream in Italian? It was just a month, just a visit,
that’s where someone like me belongs, surely?
You think I speak the language. Yes I love the trams. They are mine just as much as anyone’s,
but there’s music in me that comes
from the slip and slide between one element
Listen. You can hear its beat.