On the balcony, quadcopter drones
are hovering with the doves.
Occasionally a pigeon spatters
them with guano.
I breathe and hear
the thrumming of the armatures
spinning in their casings,
their music becoming solid
and returning to the motors.
Hidden behind my childhood walls,
the old familiar actors still grasp and terrify
in midnight sessions, replayed in flickering
black and white.
I hop my pen across the desk and imitate a bird,
write a note to Bela, Help me please,
I’m trapped inside a gravity well.
Bela in her flight suit whispers in my ear,
explains the future course of time.
Once the sea was in the sky,
it became too heavy and fell,
reshaped itself to a clouded circulation,
but soon enough
it will rise again.
Houses will turn to dust, thoughts to vacuum,
children, echoes in the streets,
we’ll be compressed in carboniferous layers,
deep sedimentary strata of a new luciferent era.
And when the glow of life has guttered,
when moonlight crumbles and contaminates the air,
Guaraci, the sun’s beginning, will light
a slow and final morning.
I have questions, she puts a finger to my lips.
Now that our context is clear,
we’ll dance and sing and wear the memories
of friendship: rings and bracelets,
cuff links and a tie clip,
home screens for our cellphones.
At other times regrets will tell their stories
and you will let your cravings run their race,
but not here, not now, for
the gentle days and nights with me.
Guaraci is the sun deity in the mythology of Brazil’s Tupi-Guarani peoples