Some people think we’re all the same beneath our hair,
they hope the thoughts they fear inside their head
are just a common cold. Others, that their
special vision of dominions and desires
is not a stuffy nose.
But I remember turquoise afternoons
when everything was intermediate,
and you and I could be by being,
when all our past was yet to happen
and even sins were innocent.
Sipping facts and artifice,
Sunday’s paper split between us,
while up above the sun would lose its blue,
be left with too much orange and
splash it through the windows
I didn’t know my secret destiny,
dressed in rainy wind and salted fog,
would be a victim of our spoken vacuum.
When the music in the bars was hollow and off-key,
I said the things that people say,
mostly to the mirrors and the floor,
and when I left, you kept
my Cartesian reference frame,
streets and their addresses,
the city, Los Andes and the weather.
I was swept away, motionless on rails,
carried far to impersonal stations
with underwear in my briefcase
beside the CRC Handbook
of Chemistry and Physics.
Later I would wash my clothes,
discover humans, other colors,
and realize any stranger
knew more of life than me.
Autumn knit, unravelling and raveling (spring is here). Travel can change the order of the seasons but apparently you can’t do autumn at the end of spring unless your aircraft can fly faster than the speed of light.