The poem is sitting opposite you, watching
while you read it through. Once you raise your eyes from the page, it catches
your glance. Takes a sip of its glass of Tempranillo. Lets you
think. Then sends you back to the beginning to reread it again in light of the
ending.
You draw up some more chairs: one for
your memory, one for your dreams, another for your imagination. The poem pours
them all a glass of that Tempranillo. They swirl it and sniff. Clink glasses in
a silent toast. Start talking among themselves. You even dare to join their conversation.
And that’s when the poem stands up,
drains its glass, and quietly leaves. Its job is done.
Here's a continuation of a list I posted in June. Without the context it's
rather unfair to assess the following fragments. From what I recall,
they're m...
No comments:
Post a Comment