I walk across a spill of objects on bare chafed feet.
I step on drum jugs and notice they’re breasts,
but hard, their nipples like the flat ends of hazelnuts.
A forest of wind-blown trees fades into greyness.
Amidst the blowing wind an angel seductress sits,
barely clad, enticing legs professing modesty, doll face
like Bessie Smith but white, head wreathed, pointy
transparent wings apart. The rose? How could I have
missed it in the corner! It’s pink and orangish and blurred,
emits the vapor of an unlit scented candle, more
cinnamon and clove than rose. I’ve come lured by
two green feathers, have to touch them, comb them,
but they can’t be reached. I realize the mild blue
eye is waiting. It has let down its Mayan stone stairs.
I know that I will climb them and, in doing so,
will rise for centuries, will shake off gravity of Bab-i-Lon,
will look into abysses and mist-filled valleys, layers
of blue hues, airs, fragrances en route to the infinite blue.
– Niebla ( © 2008 )