The breezes
in my upstairs apartment
are like Italy
like in old films
a grand hotel
like ancient wallpaper:
toile and fleur de lys
my grandmother’s oleander tree,
her pearls
like writing when it works–
the empty beach in Tirennia
with its blue striped umbrellas:
the way I imagined the breezes
drifting across Africa
waves lapping against its shore

like Claudine and Lily (my two cats, now dead)
like the love between us
like too many metaphors and similes
like lists
like an open road
like music:
a huge piano in an empty room with gauze curtains
playing Chopin
or an endless loop of Underworld
like Kate Bush’s Aerial
like light
like Kawabata’s colorful lanterns
carried in a long procession down the hill
like the Hermit, the Magician and the Heirophant
like Orpheus’ samba
like jazz
like my Dad –
I catch glimpses of him
like me
when I’m not clenched up –
then there are moments of clarity
and joy.

1 Comment

  1. I am there with you. Very visual. I love the images. It is like walking down a hall and looking into different rooms and experiencing different scenes. I especially like the Kawabata. One of my favorite writers. His “The Old Capital” is absolutely my favorite novel.


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