Symptom A: upon walking to Walgreens drugstore in search of remedies to ward off a cold, you remark something that distinctly recalls being in that car in London, in the back seat, where a cache of things tucked was the surplus of loss during the very first days of reconstruction.
Symptom B: the tucked thing remarked was seen on the perimeter of a construction site, a plot, a hole in the ground, a cavernous prelude to a large erection.
2 comments:
I have a terrible cold,
And everyone knows how terrible colds
Change the whole structure of the universe,
Set us against life,
And make even metaphysics sneeze.
I have wasted the whole day blowing my nose.
My head aches vaguely.
Sad condition for a minor poet!
Today I'm really a minor poet.
Whatever I was before was only wishful, and that's gone.
Fairy queen, goodbye forever!
Your wings were sunbeams, and I am walking here.
I'll never get well if I don't stretch out in bed.
I never was well unless I was stretched out across the universe.
Excusez un peu ... What a terrible, physical cold!
I need some truth and aspirin.
[hope you feel better soon, kitten.]
As always, lovely poetry, mr. de campos.
Merci, mais je ne suis pas un chaton.
drw
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