Two Poems

Pamela Proietti

Pinhole
(Tanka n. 7)
 
The sun drives his spokes
through the tips of my fingers.
September goes green—
if only your hand would brush
its light on my face.
 
 
 
Sicily
(Tanka n. 36)
 
Ruddy island, from my glance
you hold for safekeeping
the story that was.
A street runs alongside
the days we live.

translated from the Italian by Donna Mancusi-Ungaro Hart and Stephen Eric Berry