Issue 3

The Bear of Orgosolo

 · Poetry

The smell of bread baking — 
irresistible to the painters.

I pity painters as I pity bears and
berries the cloud sweeps away with the rain,
too feeble because they can never understand
the Italian language.

My mother once said of paint:
something will eventually eat it.

			*  *  *

Tonight the mountains surrounding the village
turned into a blue crown as the sun set
and the harvest moon was eclipsed by the Earth!

			*  *  *

This is the alternate version:
ellipses were replaced by exclamation points;
stars, by question marks — the change causing

the same sensation one feels when placing
a hand to a mirror, the chill followed 
by the dull, familiar warmth.

			*  *  *

But what I really wanted to describe
was “The Bear of Orgosolo” mural,
how it poses all day for photographers,
who are really hunters,
or practices going unnoticed,
and not simply from the tourists,
but also, and quite smartly, from the sun,
which can, over the course of many years,
fade the honey-brown eyes, the ebony claws.


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