no love, no nothing; I’ll simply snap this flower bud -
and it will fall, soundlessly
late, close to nightfall, on this day of autumn
my face is turning northward
towards those lush hillside orchards
where the sunset is setting its tongues ablaze
where our fathers and forefathers relive their childhood
their squalid, sordid, sacred childhood
spent toiling the soil.
no love, no nothing, just a simple dream
of rustic, peasant life - and peace.
turning inward towards myself
I am but a murmur of the earth
a tremor of the roots, scattered debris
dotting the city streets.
Hermana, I'm walking about with dirt in my slippers -
and my mouth's full of dirt.
I am ready for the great turning:
ready to turn up my toes,
to turn to lichens and symbiotes
your dreams reek of formaldehyde and darkness.
I turn to you for the very last time
to lay my ear against your chest, so lovelessly
and therein, hear once more - a little more -
the rumbling of the sea
