A bowl of boiling soup,
a pinch of grated cheese,
a glass of dry Lambrusco.
Here the dark five months
have just begun, they think
for one last time, in the end.
Waiting for the broth to cool
while eyeing black and white
photos strewn on the couch.
Feelings resurface I cannot
use, although I loved them
once, as I fail to remember.
Day by day year after year
the night stays a youngling
while recollections go stale.
Flavor of celery and carrots,
sweet savor of grains of rice,
multicolored bits of acid past
which scratch my washy face
in the slowly ascending steam.