She regularly trips over
still boxed prefab Summer sun-room kit. Seasons
passed. Birthday. Rushed
with streams of memories she celebrates
mid-summer night in Roman baths. She recites long
wavy lines “Believe me, there’s no way to improve your figure:
nude Love doesn’t love artifice in beauty.
Look what colors the beautiful earth sends forth,
how the ivies come better of their own accord.”* Afternoon curved shadows sigh
with oak tree veins ready to be cut
from roots of her heart. She waits, and waits, then summons contractors
and masons
to bend a differential curve
and not to kill the tree. In the new sketched blueprint of an arch
the future vertigo
vault surrounds the tree and
her truth breaks the math of a cement stage. With birds’ warble
days and times unpin her set plans, still
she finds her dreams hidden in antique
vitrine with porcelain
talking-dolls clad in dusty, Vesuvian dresses
remembering the ancient Roman naked sculptures. She stays
on a shelf cased in
a glass bubble

Only colors of past smell like once freshly picked orange
and present is like an unfit substitute to dear memories;
just a plastic replica
which cheap fruits grow goosebumps
on her hairy red leaves,
and is getting colder every night, Fall wears day to pass
turning too quickly
the plastic mirage into a pitch dark.
She looks out there, but no sun room,
just boxes and long, long night up North.
Nothing adds up
Why a perfect orange plastic replica
makes her to rage all night?…

* Sextus Propercius, “Elegies,” (Vincent Katz, Ed.)¬†


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