Photo by C. G. on Unsplash
An old man’s face on a billboard,
text like that in dreams, gibberish.
Behind it is a cut-off building, then
another, a little home, industrial
chimneys. Pylons frame the view.
Raindrops stick to the window
and make the world a blur,
the grays turn into greens,
a tree appears then vanishes,
a stroke of paint — a flower
which you cannot know.
Stars fall from the sky.
A landscape of TV static,
of white noise, only pitch-
black telephone poles remain
in view. The bushes are too
small to see, the trees too tall,
and the birds that fly by become
cold copper wires and pillars
of steel, to be seen only once,
to vanish into the rain without
regrets, without a heartbeat.
All that remains is the mirror
reflecting a river of asphalt,
white stripes like seafoam,
and dream-text that reads —
OBJECTS IN MIRROR ARE CLOSER
THAN THEY APPEAR
An old man’s face on a billboard,
text like that in dreams, gibberish.
Behind it is a cut-off building, then
another, a little home, industrial
chimneys. Pylons frame the view.
Raindrops stick to the window
and make the world a blur,
the grays turn into greens,
a tree appears then vanishes,
a stroke of paint — a flower
which you cannot know.
Stars fall from the sky.
A landscape of TV static,
of white noise, only pitch-
black telephone poles remain
in view. The bushes are too
small to see, the trees too tall,
and the birds that fly by become
cold copper wires and pillars
of steel, to be seen only once,
to vanish into the rain without
regrets, without a heartbeat.
All that remains is the mirror
reflecting a river of asphalt,
white stripes like seafoam,
and dream-text that reads—
OBJECTS IN MIRROR ARE CLOSER
THAN THEY APPEAR
