Argentina

What dreams, stilled by night's solace and the inflections flinching 
from words unspoken, freedom unwritten in the distance between two 
days ago and now, summer too long gone, the city a straining shadow 
of emptiness disguised as faces I hurriedly know, as bodies torn over 
the salt of denial and the urge for completion tarnishing each world 
reflected in stone and water. Perhaps, there is nothing to all of this, 
merely a stamen bending to the wind, trees stiffening silently 
amidst travellers seeking to become lost and forever lost 
to the whir of minutes becoming hours, becoming months 
pressed between page and four leaf clover. Although 
there is quiet, there is suffering heard from rooftops 
attuned with the heart to hear and know of this, 
this flailing complacency a sense that all 
will be destroyed before the day 
has come to flower. 

Reviews

[Emily B]

is it just me, or have your words gone and grown again?

[W.k.kortas]

I might have lined this a bit differently; I think there are spots of emphasis that are lost because they are in the middle of lines. The writing, the use of language itself, however...that's top notch, mindful of Borges' early poetry.