Maybe Even This Memory Is Useless
Maybe even this memory is useless,
barely alive because of a whistle.
The boy disappeared behind
the town’s walls that morning
in the blinding snow, head
bandaged, a moist rose of blood
blooming under the gauze,
a red scrappy angel.
I lost you on the ramps
along the walls. Now I see
only your shadow on the blue
snow, the light of your legs.
(Translated from the Italian by Rina Ferrarelli)