A beach (for Andrea Zanzotto)

by Orso Jacopo Tosco

Going down through the steep
nettle-coloured ways preserving
ourselves in bolshy barks of voice,
although knackered and scorched
by the salting sun by our deeds.

Then, to a single person
infinitely hidden
only presence,
offering a sea urchin,
the quill sticked in the speech,
watching him eat:

the eggs, what is left.