WINTER SOLSTICE: December 21, 1989

– Gonzalinho da Costa

I am prisoner to conversation with an old man with a broken nose, mute with catarrh, sedentary and limping.
The window is squealing like a small animal, trapped.
Outside in the empty parking lot sits an abandoned car, dried out extinct turtle.

Dryness scrapes skin off the flaking season lying lifeless, electricity gone dead.
Clouds cast to the ground feeble eyes of a pallid man.
Trees written in charcoal thrust into the sky, exclaiming, “I am turned into a pillar of salt!”

Winter breaks its stony face against the hammering wind,
Dust and rocks mix with air,
Grass grinds like pebbles underfoot.

A warm room withers faster than a disconnected leaf.
Memories scatter twigs across the carpet.
Deaf to clapping, hooded thoughts wander.
Only blue sparks crackle in recognition.

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