A Temporary To Be

A Temporary To Be

I am slow, by antithesis

I evoke the senses while observing rivers' fluidity. In the absence of words, I sleep

in the names, I dip my moisty look

inside these Indian hands, worn out hands, where winds and songs bathe and sway

nature is prime and out of tomorrow

the bumps appear, massive: the bony flesh against the glass and in between nothing

but a temporary to be

and blood - wings are left out and fly

The fog condenses

the breath, even that close to the ground and fast, very fast, without friction, almost

and finally the word arises - intention - and with it a small figure takes shape, runs, screams - to me? -

tomorrow It's my birthday!

During the foghorn growl, the sand

stops; the water hesitates between killing and hiding; I feel its sound

dense, infiltrating it self as I breathe – thus I stop as well and wait

anxious, the news is clear: huge depression arriving from the west-south-west, threats to the coast, fallen trees, shards of porcelain, shattered glass, waves taking over the river and climbing roads; vertical floods

on land, in the land we do not own, in the home we do not inhabit, in the bed where 

we do not lie

© 2016, José Coelho