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KAFKA AT BOLOGNA

We have scoured the entire city

to learn where the deception resides:

the season opens with a polemic

against the Stoics but the day is against

those arguments: the name that persisted

as far as the border with the rain

expresses in a lofty

style an event that everyone knows.

There are scant traces

of all the solutions, the higher region of existence does not belong to us: the cloudless

albatross is a machine with simple

rules, it plays with the hoopoe

obstructing the past.

I have seen previous winters

escape this purpose:

they rose during involuntary solitudes

tracing lines over cones of grass.

He can only be received again:

his alter ego in this projection

transforms the forest into a cultural zone:

among the nocturnal gestures

a virtuous exercise can be narrated

in common words: the swallows come

to visit Kafka's body.

He never thought history

could be any different.

Through a system of errors

the consignees reassume this machine

in a manufacturing language:

futurist objects must be

adulated or switched off.

Absorbed in a popular belief

several scientists represent society

with threads of memory:

they try to hold it together

but its vocation is to disintegrate,

It cleverly fixes its game

while a thread of light falls on the leaves.

A program of negligent days

offers a motive for reflection:

the shining crowd has one foot

in the shadow, those who speak of it

become the squalls of an epoch:

the pretence of the uprooted

flows into myth and a double row of vines

rocks the chairs in the dining room.

The altar boy walks between dialectic and

structure: he shakes the branches at

sunset, unaware that nothing is a syllogism:

and an insidious pair

leads a central idea to a baroque cart:

because of his solitude

he only lives twice.

The distance conceals those motives,

the defects whirl in the air,

he had conceived an important project

but saw his intentions vanish.