— José Luis Gutiérrez
One leap year in the harrow,
with February long gone.
There is a near joyous errancy
in the coastal wind.
It’s Memorial Day and the world
has defenestrated itself into color.
The green swell of leaves in the yard
sways to the vagaries of some
lost song about remembrance.
This morning, meeting my reflection halfway,
I derived the equation for defining
the event horizon of a mirrored surface.
I favor the interleavings of language
where silence speaks its verb and muscles its case.
A possible vernacular where sky
is synonymous with wings
and every breath spells closure.
Traffic multiplies itself into slowness.
Three dense lanes of it gleaming like
a dung beetle crusade, teasing entropy’s
coiled sleep. The forecast states
a monk will roast under
God’s own magnifying glass.
Once again the mind sets about
its customary machinations
of needs and wants. Everything the nine million
waves of ocean will drag and smash
against the agglomerate of this life before
a tidal homing blesses us with quiet music
and the weightlessness of stars.