Wednesday, December 3, 2014

Memory fails

Return To The Scene Of My Greatest Triumph

I could have sworn there were trees ringing
A lake in the shape of a guitar pick

Whipped to meringue by a steady breeze
Breaking on a dirty Band-Aid boat launch

Cooing rain muffling a hot sizzle of tires
In the seconds before they bit the ramp.

Then again I might be conflating the sound
Of a mandolin from a third floor window open

On an alley running parallel to a parade
Snaking through a city by the sea pilgrims

Chanting in the mother tongue celebrating
The birthday or martyrdom of Saint So and So

Tipping swollen papier mâché heads to swill cava
From the bottle a shower of coin and medallion

Tinging the metallic air triggering strong associations
Jiggering to arms dozing battalions of synaptic cleft

That suggest a stool and a glass of water on a stage
No bigger than a handkerchief stung through layers

Of silence by the dirty needle of a spotlight
Amber waves of silence clear to the horizon

A harvest of quiet so deafening you
Could have heard a pin drop but as I recall

You left the fruitless haystack search for others
And spirited me away to a lake ringed by trees

Where we drank cava and tried in vain
To recite the names of all the hapless saints. 

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