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

              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-
              immersed in clumsy

              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


melissa said…
i see dozens of exhaled rabbits,
ribbons of bouncing fur,
as they dance across fallen
leaves of Autumn.

nice one, Carol!

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