I thought elvis was italian
solo in giappone / alone in japan
You come across a poem completely in Italian. You turn the page, like a twirl of the fork. There awaits for you the English version.
si sente l’odore della pasta
e la musica della forchetta
che canta contro il piatto
I can smell the pasta
the music of the fork
that sings against the plate
I take it that these are not soba noodles. But equally delicious.
Capilongo also has a wonderful take on a bricklayer after Ondaatje’s cinnamon peeler. Some day there maybe somewhere someone to take after alone in japan in some bilingual mode.
And so for day 1505