A Bit of Poetry

The Lonesome Radio

the lonesome radio walks
like an orchid, a phaleanopsis,

quietly, without looking.
a long overcoat inside,

it smiles the kind of smile
that must be silent in the east coast,

and tells me about loving a woman 
in nineteen-seventy-six

when still an immigrant of hearts.
I think back, timelessly, like late-May sky.

the lonesome radio told me that Flaubert
was lost in literature and self-destruction.

the lonesome radio told me the soul 
wants to become three colors,

like three balloons or newspaper stands,
or three men walking in the afternoon.

I wanted to tell you that I dreamt of mine 
becoming red-yellow-black like arrows 

like children like nauseating oceans.
the lonesome radio tunes in just once,

while being drawn upright, and asks me
If I still look up when I think of sunrises, 

If I find them dangerous for our cells.
I say yes, like high-altitudes, despotic,

short of breath, I say sunrises make me
sticky & unmovable, confused & tangled.

maybe our souls are like living frequencies
mine a different pattern than yours
 
like bitten nails like striated muscles.
the lonesome radio told me that

I am grayscale without you, simple waves.
that night you wrote me back to tell me

that memory lives inside you as poems,
like radio frequencies like lonesome souls.