by Fabio Mórabito

    Translated by Geoff Hargreaves

    I spy on the building

    closest to hand

    a movement that begins

    out on its balconies

    as the day's routine，

    the early tasks of morning

    with their stock and styleless gestures，

    flowers again.

    I fall in love at this one hour

    when people most repeat themselves，

    least connected to their inner lives

    and packed with habits laid down long ago.

    There's a woman I observe who

    constantly appears in bathrobe，

    on floor eight， with coffee cup，

    matronly blonde， in love with life

    casting glances at her wider world while taking

    two quick sips¹ or three，

    and then with an erotic shake

    loosens up the sugared lees， to reach

    the best of sips， the last， the sweetest. . .

    all before quite waking up.

    Before you quite wake up，

    blonde of the morning， hold fast

    to ritual tasting， self-communion.

    Off from your balcony，

    at last emerged from sleep，

    slip inside your home， by now yourself，

    make gestures of your own，

    not those somebody has bequeathed to you

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