Wide antic eyes, Salvador, you are your brother
dead, but better. Do you rest on his grave and
tell him about 17th century moustache and
Gala, everything he misses out on.
No need, he sweeps your bones when
they need to grow.
He plants ideas and colors in Spain
where people steal your dreams.
I will give you hopeful fruit
that can be nailed to a wall,
make it my four walls please – a trapezoid leaning in
like egg yolk – protein for my absent
skill. If I had yours,
I would be she, your catastrophe theory,
feeding you death on a spoon.
I could be your nervous system, taking your wishes
from your guts.
We are not “in fact or intention”
We are surrealism
and I know this because I live inside you,
inside your brother.
So rich in concrete imagery, and yet still slippery enough to keep the brain stretching to clutch it as something whole and intelligible! Or, should I should say, rich in meaning but it’s a meaning that moves rather than being fixed. Trying to figure out why I like your poetry so much. That’s the best I can do for now 🙂
Thank you so much. I’m terribly flattered! Truly.