of words, let me tell you
I have tried to find
fixtures to fill the gaps laid between us:
corridor, coffee shop, library – landscapes
supplanted with stone, shared
sips, and spines
older than our own, only
to later see how I have nothing left
to give. Only this silence,
and a memory: watching the first slits of sun
wiping the world anew.
—
The only productive thing I managed to make the entire day despite trying to write a story, revise another, and start a poem.
Let me tell you about tall walls turned short, wide
roads swirling like water: streets turning
into narrow ends, bending as dust floats in the air
without resistance. I am here. Home.
The word grows hesitant in my mouth, sticking
the edges of my lips shut. Here:
this new city with streets possessing
a face embedded with puddles persistently growing
viscous, murky seas garbage-sprinkled, spit-salted, holed
in asphalt. Here, there is too much
of rain – almost everyday now. Water,
too much water reminding me of differences,
cold and soothing to the skin, mapping
explanations on why I am here, memories
of there and the places I left you, dripping
to the ground, translucent as it fades
into the gray bed of sidewalks, offering
to wash everything away.
