raining-here
is
like...fading skies
multiple
in their wordless
tints-&-nuances,
as to
slide
over, (in)
(to)
their most
sacred
touch:
galloping,
the memories
just
collapse onto
all
that blurred care to be
inside
mirrors of
allover-like
boxes for living in
and
you, you in the end
just
smile, or will try your most,
your
very best flakes, as if
still
in hope, to keep up with—
even
in the paltry space
that’s
left you—
the
shattered motion:
lost,
you find
yourself
there
missing
the line
on
the creased landscape
as
wearing, you-yourself,
a
packed-out oblivion
yet,
the autumnal textures—
still
a breath, still la-la-la—
come
to remind you
to
extol the alate, unclothed
fantasies
and springs
humming-&-swaying,
like...with no rue
no
scars, no any
packed
st(r)ain
(and
even when)
slippery
is the edge
of
their solitude—
the
clouds’, their unveiling
and
cloaking, but all-in-all
just
listen, or fictionize:
there’s
a cajá-manga tree
or
here, through the window,
the
very apricot flavor
holding
up the air
imagination
en bloc
your
heart seems to
burst
at the seams,
close-to...after all:
the warm
drops reach
the
grey asphalt
you
se(ns)e
autumn
is still
there,
the more invisible
in
its flames should it appear
the
stranger and warmer
are
your reminiscences
from
the dulcet rays of sunshine
finally...like...no one will sob
for
those strange feet-
&-sprinkles-of-rain—
immersed
in clumsy
ticks-&-tocks—
mingled
with yowl(ing)s
of humble
despair
or
such lacerating accede,
silent
them, like. . .unseeable
or
profound enough
as
unsayable is also
the
moan of their no-name,
your
no-name, any(every)one’s
no
name. . .but anyways:
the
little cat-lady,
just
another scene
springing
up from the noon—
like...a reverie—
slides
away from
your
guard-down lap
as
to paw the back window—
again,
once again
here
you are, this same window—
through
which, along
the
horizon, lies
the cajá-manga tree, the lone-her,
eager
for that same
recondite
rain,
remote
and ebullient
in
its autumnal hope
song Luíza, performed by Duo na Corda
painting Untitled, 1948-49, by Jackson Pollock
i see dozens of exhaled rabbits,
ReplyDeleteribbons of bouncing fur,
as they dance across fallen
leaves of Autumn.
nice one, Carol!