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Stefano Pastor Cycles' Poem (by Erika Dagnino) |
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A small, old, black, hard, solid rubber ball. (Pause). I shall feel it, in my hand, until my dying day. (Pause) I might have kept it.
S. Beckett, Krapp’s Last Tape
till in the end the day came in the end came close of a long day when she said to herself whom else time she stopped time she stopped
S. Beckett, Rockaby |
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I
The dark of the ball rebounds: palm, floor, palm, floor. Bound, bound . . . Ball, floor . . .
Could
it be the wall? (...) It returns. Perhaps someone has thrown it AAA___________again or the ball has crashed into a wall by itself crumbling it as if . . .
It
returns. It rolls along the bright line. It
returns: palm, floor, palm, floor. Bound . . . , bound . . . Ball, floor
. . . (...) II (...) From time to time it pushes itself. Suddenly chains and wood jolting in the air. The links show vermilion traces. It goes to check the pallor of the bud. Imagined from that point of view with no rest. Near breaths. From the nostrils in the nostrils. The dust at the waist. (...) III
While your ear was leaning you began to listen to the rigid rustle then you turned while quite a faint barely audible rain (...)
IV Floor Vast empty Stain Vermilion traces/Diaphanous traces
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