The Unwritten Space
It attracts and it scares me
like a cold desert,
waiting to get populated.
A desert in the depths of which
life lies dormant,
enfolded in its own mysteries.
Henry Miller and Céline
sit at night by a makeshift bonfire,
on the edge of the horizon;
on the crest of a dune
Virginia Woolf learns to float
above words,
under a dried tree
Hemingway peeks wearily
In the depths of the barrel,
somewhere,
on the brink of possibility,
Pavese tries not to die.
