Non so il sole. Lo sento, corre. Sera.
L’albero di Giuda mi ha convinta ora.
Metto in deposito le giacche quasi
pulite. Le ore, qui davanti al video,
lo schermo che riflette gli orecchini.
Mi muovo sui marmi, scalza. Il tappeto
è una sella d’oro ai piedi in attesa
di atterraggio sul prato e sulla ghiaia.
Marina
9 aprile
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