She Listens to Magenta Flowers
Yet she listens to the magenta flowers
Blowing up on a night shift, too early,
To street vendors sneering too loud at the lousy coffee
While ogling ladies who fake some concern
For their bosom friend’s migraine,
Is it foul acting or what?
You can trust me, danger is over,
Those women so keen
To heap life on all and sundry
Hardly tawdry theater cloths now,
Relax, soul and give life
To the towers, to the ravens, who cares –
No wounds, no scars, no knives I’ve got,
I’ve never hit light or kiddos, only dark-adapted words –
As ever I oblige –
But you, you are bit slow, aren’t you, migraine,
Why wasting time with hope?
Look, no births, no goddess of wisdom,
My head is barren, just fields
And a burning bush holding fast the sky –
Call them my days if you like –
Them I remember and February,
A month of mirrors and scorching remarks
Aimed at limbs or lips –
How funny, on the very same day
While a teacher tied the knot
A suburban wife put a cloth deep in the oven –
Who would have thought light could dance
The breathe of life over the chrome plating,
Sort of burning ice when doormen smash up bass players
And black-widows sting to death pure-voiced singers?
Dunno, who cares, lunch time:
The metaphysicals stop arguing,
I stay busy with my first sin, fear –
Know what, soul, we two trust
Lovely rose and lilac blending in the shades
Can shield us from nasty ambushes
The odd arrow, wild shadows –
Time to get it clear once and for all:
Staunch sinners and ever the ingénues
Are favourite fodder with marshes and sea deeps,
Right?
No more misunderstandings, please –
Geddit and geddit fast, then go!
Randomly Accessed Poetics 
Gabriella Garafalo listens to nature and her own nature to understand the language
of a modern poet.