The Subliminal Room
That weepy October marigolds were so full. I made an omelet with them. Do you remember? All November, leaves mixed with rain, making streets slippery. We listened mostly to Chopin. Leaves droop in September too ripe and heavy for trees. I was careful not to slip, dreading when leaves would grow dry and crumble. Some live all winter through the next spring. Chased by winds, they huddle in corners, reminding me of mice. I confessed to you how I loved Russian poets and waited for a silent revolution, revealing my childhood possessed by rosaries and nuns chanting Ave, Ave, Ave Maria. "Your navel exudes the warmth of 10,000 suns", you said. We still live in this subliminal room. Jonah did not want to leave the whale's stomach. We continue trying to decipher Chopin. Your eyes are two bunches of morning glories. Sometimes the sky is so violet. Will we ever live by the sea, Michael, and eat carrots? I do not want my sight to fail. Hurry, the dew is drying on the flowers.