La parola da casa, Serena Piccoli

I drove through the 2 a.m. streets of the city tonight with some crazed god whispering over my shoulder, “chaos, chronos—all else is a dream.” the streets of the south side were filled with people wandering through the night air—men gathered at gas stations, couples crossing deserted parking lots, prostitutes gathered all in white. the desolation makes me wonder where poetry fits in, but the god on my shoulder does not let me forget that perhaps it’s just the appropriate medium for humans, allowing something of the now to remain undiminished for the future.