I will tell you about it some time, when the time is right (it is never right)
I have thought of Joni Mitchell, how she tells me to get back to my 'garden'
my garden, the long stretch of emptiness, I left long ago among the clouds
beckons me with words, with lost notes I can't recall anymore, the sound of fire
fresh in my bones, I can't recollect how rivers turned bloody in the wine glass
or how cutlery took the form of an Acheulean axe shaped with the hurt of distress
my heart is the cleaving of summer buried inside floorboards that reek of rust
people talk of spring, the fragrance of wild roses, in a country that is not my own
I look for summer in basements with sunshine starved in the trauma of stone
depression has synonyms, one sinks in the nightmares of their facelessness
a moment of recklessness, an hour of grotesque, a day entangled in duress
the sky is a catacomb of macabre stars, the earth is a carcanet of endless wars
we look for people, people look for us, in hurricanes of nebulous horrors
the world collapses in an eclipse of unspoken thoughts, trapped behind doors.