We arrived in Procida on the boat

at twilight, and somebody got off,

but our destination was Ischia.

I mumbled in your language

that it was not our island,

but I was enchanted by the façades

with their oleander and apricot colors,

by the balconies’ placid quarter moons.

We flew past, and we landed at night.

On Ischia we stayed for a week,

in front of the castle you see on stamps,

licked by black and green swells.

We lived waiting for the photographs

taken at home. You didn’t want to go back.

For you Ischia had become the happy island.

I, on the contrary, wanted dry land,

to make of the island a life.

You, once on the mainland, hastily took off.

Here I am, after years, on Procida,

in front of Ischia, the happy island.

Here I hang out and take in my washing.

On Procida the waves are mine,

like hair: I comb them,

roll them, and with their swishing I reflect.

I eat its fish, I pick its lemons,

in the mirror I observe it,

and Ischia seems far away to me.

And yet, when I see it suddenly complete,

with its dominating clouds,

assembled to imitate nets,

I think this is your way

to turn up, to retrace in the air the finite.

I mistook you for land, but you were the sea.

You were the false landing of a reckless raft.

Now I look at Ischia,

because Procida has taught me to contemplate.