The correction

At the five millionth coffee they decided

to take the bull by the horns

hands on their thighs rose in chorus

from the folding chairs arranged in a circle

they ascended from the neon basement

to the frost of the primum mobile left open

and asked the angel on duty for an appointment

directly with the creator. With courteous urgency.

not protected by a waiting room in the dark

breathing warmth into their clenched fists they tried

their little speech again: look at us we are all

here and we are all equally wrong

we can’t love each other do something

and if you really don’t want to make us new again

touch us up, improve us, correct the obvious

error of youth. O almighty you.

And they smiled tremblingly wondering

so not to think of Vladimir and Estragon

behind masks of anxiety silhouetted

in the flickering of a lighter, how

he would finally show up

whether in a traditional light breeze

or a breath of late-Bobdylanian hoarseness

in everyone’s ear in hyperstereo.

They almost didn’t notice when it happened.

Those who did notice it kept quiet

so not to distract those accustomed to despair

when everyone sprouted a third limb

right in the center of their chest and their head

an obtuse hand, neither right nor left.

And they continued to melt in chatter

more delicate than dew. It was easier

to accept grace this way, correction

without stopping to wait for another,

the right one at last, the final tweak

that would not let them down. The grass was gray,

the night butts on the ground,

the dawn doomed to come.

(Translated from Italian by Patrick Williamson)