I have often Imagined that glances
survive the act of seeing
as if they were poles,
measuring rods, lances
thrown in a battle.
Then I think that in a room
one has just left
those same lines must stay behind
sometimes suspended there and crisscrossed
untouched and overlaid like the wooden pieces
in a game of pick-up-sticks.
(by Valierio Magrelli, translated from the Italian by Dana Gioia)
(the heading is mine, not the poem’s)
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