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
we do not lie
©
2016, José Coelho
