We agree on this,
it’s never been so gray.
The sky won’t rain.
The concrete entrance drive,
the stucco portico.
In the wings, old people
kept from dying.
We’ve got a hundred papers
to sign. We’re at a loss
for florid verse. And yet,
when no one’s listening,
we beg each other
for a word. Out the window
a jacaranda — exotic tree
with extravagant
cerulean blooms in summer —
droops its winter-
feathered leaves.
Imagine her in blue
boas, flamenco on a breeze.
Imagine
so we can’t forget.
At the tip of every twig
a castanet.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem