*Little
Surgery*
When
this city became a sequence
of
names, paper based
memories
filling the air with that
typical
oxygenless odor
family
decay bending stalks
thick
as trees, names listed on both
sides
of streets, sticking their endocrine flavor
upwards,
the sky a worn out organism
pressing
its blue against what used to be
the
velvet of skins
Neither
of us
remained,
neither of us captured
the
moment the seagulls
departed
though
it was long depicted
on
walls and written within books
All
these years now, I have been dreaming
whether
they miss that something
as
much as I do; perhaps
the
coming season
I
will check around what
was
left or
reborn
alike and I plan to include
you.
©
2017, José Coelho
Sem comentários:
Enviar um comentário