Day Twenty-Nine: International poem! Well, sort of. It's a poem with a splash of another language.
At last, the spring.
Windows flash open
and the houses are black holes;
the trees bend and the swarms rally
as they are pulled by a curious breeze.
"Dove รจ la rosa?" it asks,
its inflection child-like and
its accent difficult to understand.
At a touch the world vibrates,
any more pressure and it cracks,
l'abisso, the way to the old hell.
The breeze is a vehicle only,
something to carry the past out
and the future forward,
replacements up as ranks fall,
gunshot and spent queries.
There is no answer in the dark
(long anticipated, to be fair),
and the last twitch of current
before the moon lulls it to sleep,
trapped in la notte della presa,
is an instinct, wild,
quick as the brush of dead lips
and a failure to understand.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Maps & Atlases, Pigeon
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