Dear Rose, I want you to be sun become water.
I want to save the house, save the city, save the sea,
and still I can't.
All I can do is hold them together in my memory,
piling all this language next to me, counting the containers
and measuring their weight.
And is this sentence a year yet, or does anyone ever really die?
Did we ever exist at all?
Under the blue flower Scorpio moon,
I dream of more time with the lemon trees.
I dream of the aguacates teaching me
everything they know about growing and freedom.
I learn to become the house and begin to build one
in the heart of my heart.
I forgot to take a brick.
Wanted the memory to stick more than a maybe,
I tried to make a talisman out of the tragedy.
The angel's trumpets levitate and face
the sky when I return to the house in dreams.
It seems the structure continues to grow older
in the imaginary, which may be an entangled
dream or another thing happening else when
where our house survives.
I don't assume to know the finer details
of the holographic universe.
I feel it sometimes and can't language fast enough
to render it real.
We remain parallel, never touching and yet
is that not a form of touch?
Is touch not the repulsion of electrons,
atoms hovering like star systems becoming a type of distance
that communicates nearness.
The impossibility of connection.
We become enmeshed in this language mess,
and yet it's the only way I can reach you.
This weary warble, the low yawn of the somnambulist
waking the forest.
[APPLAUSE]