Dali's Green Pinnacles

At this point I realize how weak is the strength of one's direction. If l say effervescent and pearl, you'll think glass onions. For a while the freezer, cracking the ice. Feet on cooled ground, waiting about wasted ideas. My hands seem dirt, though they're not. Old tree mastering new words, reads them and cries. I'm thirsty, so I climb and pluck, softly. People arrive as dreams floating in the sea. They feel happy for a time. Short and narrow. The fruit is sweet, sappy, intense. Its colored evidence tinges earth and fingers rise above the skyline. This is not a mere coincidence, but the fairy tale house is spot on me. Birds keep flying above the green pinnacles of Dali. People start sadly leaving. Emptied hands, blinded hearts.

© 2017, José Coelho