The present is in the next room
filling pans and clanking pots;
it waits to make a phone call
with a glass of red wine and a knife...
The past looks at me from the wall
wondering if I've learned how large I am
and if I can share their largeness with them,
but all they can do is wait; I pretend
I've moved on.
The future calls like a bird from the window,
something about blue sky and the sound of a riddle
whose words are unknown,
to make the answer clearer.
It's the sound of water boiling,
the unlocking of cutlery,
the ice out of the tray
and nothing else but that.
The buddha that says
all the life in the dead world
must be imagined
in the road
to be killed.
Who has told
of what's inside the sense,
the alignment to angels
in the scent of black tea,
the gold beating heart
in the postcard of Kekemapa?
Pigeons move like sheets of rain
some landing on traffic poles
to scavenge drivers who don't taste
the french fries on their fingers
but wait for the magical moment to pass,
staring without seeing
the red arrow as a key;
they can't feel the line of birds
jostle their feathers
just for them.
Angel city faces
feel free to throw
what broke through their ice,
made them stronger,
but they don't like it
if I look back.