to open

Behind the door nothing, behind the curtain,
a mark imprinted on the wall, below,
the car, the window shuts, the wind still ruffles
the curtain, on the black ceiling
a dim stain, a hand mark without source,
nothing, pressing, a silk handkerchief,
the swinging chandelier, a knot, a light, an ink-stain,
on the floor, above the curtain, the cane chair scrapes,
on the floor drops of sweat from nowhere,
a stain that won't vanish, behind the curtain,
the black silk of the handkerchief, glitters on the ceiling,
a hand rests on it, the fire in the hand,
on the armchair a silk knot, glitters,
a wounded woman, the hour of blood on the wall,
the silk of the handkerchief, a shaking hand.

...

Because the curtain stirs, it rises,
the wind, light through the vent, darkness,
behind the curtain there is, night, day
boats in the canals, in a string, quiet canals, 
navigate, loaded with sand, under the bridges,  
it's morning, the iron of the steps, cars and motors, 
footsteps on the sand, wind on the sand, 
the curtains lift their hems, because it's night 
day of wind, of rain on the sea, 
the sea behind the door, the curtains filled with sand, 
stockings, rain, hanging, filthy with blood.


Antonio Porta,  fragment from Aprire (To Open), tr. Lawrence R. Smith


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