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■ Pașadine în vers alb (73)
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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2010-10-29 | [Acest text ar trebui citit în english] |
Red blanket, green cushions;
fly-swatted afternoon; sun-splatted; last-light-mottled window pane dappled with squashes of light and shade; flickering leaf shadows batting like blind butterflies; anemic cyclamen in a course green-and-grit pot rough to the touch, stuffed with leaves as greasy-backed as a fat and broad-rumped frog meditating in a backyard hole, and lazy, hazy, sleep-crazy jazz on the radio, as somnolent and as torpid as these cherry tree leaves nodding off on a summer breeze- the cherry blossoms that are still buds like tight nipples shirred in on a gathering inwards of delight... and aching with thoughts of an afternoon swoon; and warmly-aching and achingly-warm under the flagrant red blanket with red and green cushions in a tumble on a white cane chair, and held, swaddled like a dozing baby daughter against the fragrant, milky breast of the hushed afternoon. Swaddled deep inside an abandonment of reds, of greens, of clabbered cream petals and buttermilk light. Enwrapped in a blanket of leg-tousled living, of sleep-rumpled aching, of this dishevelled wanting, of that greedy regretting... enrapt in a swaddling beatitude of being.
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