sulla carta e’ un monte un cerchio                                                                                                                                                                             una bocca che reclama e fuma,                                                                                                                                                                                una giovane vetta che non sopporta                                                                                                                                                                         il il peso del cielo addosso,                                                                                                                                                                 che che fischia che fischia e sputa all’occhio                                                                                                                                                                       delle delle nuvole correnti

come il nome di un vulcano,                                                                                                       mi scorre per le vene e tra le gambe,                                                                                          un terremoto tra le pieghe del mondo s’infila                                                                                  e trova la fessura che spacca                                                                                                      e dopo unisce le due metà

troppo tardi per opporsi,                                                                                                        troppo presto per capire                                                                                                             da che versante dilaghiamo:                                                                                                   avvolti nella cenere a mantello                                                                                              rotolano per terra,  gli amanti

l’azzurro del vostro bel tetto                                                                                                    fatto livido e notte                                                                                                                     sul fragile giorno:                                                                                                                        a chi si alza e crede                                                                                                                   di aver sicuro il sole fino al tramonto,                                                                                           fino a casa la strada piana e dritta,                                                                                                la ragione del mondo in tasca e la certezza                                                                               che batte il piede a terra e comanda                                                                                       siede e regna                                                                                                                            sulla schiena paziente del pianeta,                                                                                        come in bilico una tazza sul bordo.