by Fabio Mórabito

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 sips 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.