As anticipated: assortment of holes in time: abashance in the mettle of the eternal. 18 September: Giuliano Mesa's collected poems (1973-2008) launched at La Camera Verde. Brilliant hour-long analysis of his work by Luigi Severi, entirely spoken, not read, except when drawing from the work itself—which Severi would cite only a few lines at a time, not wishing to violate what he called the status of these "perfect machines" as musical scores—everybody crammed close to listen to nonacademic lyric talk of a Saturday night.

Still, what prevailed was the pang of poetics without the poetry, particularly when recalling so poignantly this chamber resonant with the author's melodic voice, eyelids half-closed as if in some Bernini twist.

fitti e trafitti, tanto da non sentire,

più, né tanfi né cancrene,

né ossa o fèrule, làmine, lamiere,

tra boli e spermi, muchi,

mani giunte, a ingiungere che ancora,

ancora, potere ancora

affamare, divorare—

—from nun (2002-2008)