The bark of
this early spring day moves in stealthy
—do not
undo me!
soon will
come the time of streets dirty with Jacaranda flowers, the heat,
and I will balloon
and burst if I don’t find the obvious way.
This gust
of March used to be a celebration,
now my
enemy hides amongst foliage,
drunk with
ripe words and applause
How do you
miss a day of life?
No sick
days against foul seasons
‘I don’t sleep well, doctor, I’m a zombie,
a man with
no reference at hand’.
So much for
songs and documents
plastic
bags and filth in the pond.
