Make the Day Grey
I am waiting on the
cloud
to make the day grey
as I
read Baudelaire, so
bored
with the brilliant
sunlight.
I am waiting on the
cloud
to make the day grey.
Here
on the ground I wait
for rain.
I have no wings to
greet it
from close up. If I
did, I would
fly into it, poke at
its belly,
get that rain to kick
up a storm,
because this drought
has gone
on for too long. I am
waiting
on a cloud to bring a
stormy
day to our lives that
have
become too accustomed
to
sunny and clear days.
I am
waiting on a cloud to
make
the day grey.
Baudelaire, in
his grave, would agree
with me.
Throw a Stone
After Paul Eluard
Speaking in tongues,
I laugh to myself,
one sun becomes two
suns,
and the day becomes so
bright.
I conjure sleep
without closing my
eyes.
I throw a stone at the
sky.
I just need some
shade.
My hand has no
strength.
The stone comes back
and hits me in my eye.
My eye and eyelids
cannot stand the pain.
Unintended Stain
The flesh of the sky
bleeds into darkness
on my drive home.
A patch of clouds
remain billowing
in twilight as if
white out has spilled
into a black canvas,
an unintended stain.
Are there angels in
the sky one cannot
see, guiding us home?
And who can you blame
for those who do not
make it home? Are
there
devils or gremlins,
tinkering with
cars
on the winding road?
Looking and Looking
Trying to find a spark
to set the page on
fire.
Why is it so elusive?
Where does the flame
hide?
My heart burns and
my mind never rests.
This longing persists.
I am looking and
looking
for some secret. I am
I am ever failing
with eyes cast down.
Luis
Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal -
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