NOVEMBER'S Cleaning Up Souls . . .
Blazing foliage down the streets of New York,
emotions, agony, the foolishness of summer --
November's cleaning up those souls
that will blossom next spring.
Bird calling, unheard before,
mixed signals of joy and pain --
While I have experienced them
one by one, in separation.
I blend with the pelicans
resting on the trees of South Seas plantations
and sense, in my profound sleep,
Key West's infinitesimal immersion into the ocean.
Taken over by the immemorial instinct of their ancestors,
alligators escape over the fences of reservations,
coming back slowly to the fields of condos
built on the former Everglades swamps.
Flocks of migratory birds replenish
avoiding winter's emotions
whose magnitude might kill
any living being: the amount of pain opening the wounds of poetry,
sadistically inflicting inspiration.
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