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by mario paolo domingo macariola
.
.
the leaves of morning are
whistling in a language that
.
only the wind understands,
hence i stumble upon this
.
insight- the city's branching
arteries are silent
.
and are trying to decipher this
exchange- so many inquiries.
.
like: how the sun seems
dimmer and farther at times,
.
or why anyplace must be
drenched first in shadows
.
before rainfall, those shades
drawn under rushing droplets
.
like hungering targets or
fingerprints. those
.
perspectives. maybe later i
would write about them
.
again, among things barely
understandable, all of them
.
gathering to form
resemblances of illusions and
.
denials: a star is a hole in the
sky and not a star, the taoist
.
monk who burned himself
became an ember. but this is
.
not a poem about death, but
of uncertainty and of likeness,
.
today, i could be a city
bursting into a leaf, that is also
.
a universe or i could be a star
turning fireworks
.
that could also be a mote of
understanding that could also
.
be the wind humming like
ghosts within the
.
metropolis, but then the rain
falls and washes
.
everything of its meaning and
i am still staring at
.
the screen, the blinking cursor,
that could be a
.
phantom hand stretching
out to somewhere
.
of distance, all those
possibilities, save as draft.
