The heavy air comes and goes
with the scent of an old perfume and silence, of dark fragrance.
Wrap me in the weathers of the earth, pinned, black, rampant,
savage with loveliness. As if she slept in perpetual storm.
vertigo with this illusion of falling outward through blue and windy space.
metal-dust in prussian blue where cerulean moths fluttered
her awake from some outlandish fever dream.
asleep and crumbling.
unspeakable and calamitous beyond reckoning.
O sighs of amber, dreams, glances.
Yet, they are not real.
They are ghost-like entities with no physical reality, some lost thing in the dark.
But what is memory if not the language of feeling, a dictionary of faces and days and smells which repeat themselves like the verbs and adjectives in a speech, false cognates sneaking in behind the thing itself, into the pure present,
making us sad.
My memory is still obscured by seeing your coming and going.
Time consumes words.
O
cities, memories of cities,
cities awash with our desires,
cities early and
late,
cities strong,
cities intimate stripped of all their markers, only the outskirts of itself, their thinkers, their phantoms,
the invisible order that sustains cities where everyday is multiplied by all the days before it.
