The Weight

If I don’t appear in the photos it’s because it’s me
who takes them, makes a run for it.

The fight between me and the seasons.

You can spend the year counting the falling leaves.
Or watch people walk away like dominoes
detached and reconnected,
then put back in the box.

We lean on clouds, in all our lightness,
guilty only of not calculating the weight too well.

It’s spring that struggles to leave,
a bit like our words, the excuses,
the things that change.

Living is a ban without penalties,
the thin line between lips
which may have blossomed
to laugh

or else to breathe.

© Sara Comuzzo


It remains seated, your stare
from the only photograph I keep
like a puppet whose threads have been cut,
it would like to leave but can’t,
caught by spasms
in epileptic abandonment.

Rather, it’s the desire to meet that leaves,
in its sudden calculation
of what must survive and
what dissolve.

We walk away like cats
injured in a scrap with a mouse.

© Sara Comuzzo

Better Places

Count my teeth
was just to say
you make me smile.

A confession of butter:
the moon melts in even the best puddles.

You can’t see a way out,
but there is one.

The ponds care little for ducks,
they  just want swans.
And I buy all the ducklings I find
and take them to better places.

© Sara Comuzzo


What do children know of our pain
when their only problem is a punctured ball?

All that remains is to listen to the cries of lobsters,
watch the water turn orange in the pot.
Wanting to ask them if they get nervous
just before they’re boiled.

© Sara Comuzzo

Run at Lightning Speed #1

Run at lightning speed
then stop
because we’ve arrived
but our destination is  not quite
what we expected.

I’d like to tell you there are a load of stars
to count, collect, touch
but the sky is empty tonight

and that would be a lie.

A thousand harpoons rip dolphins apart.

And we are seated on the dawn
to wait for the moon.

© Sara Comuzzo