A first glance, and a man is falling, screaming,
his big red eye and rainbow mouth open, large
as he falls and falls toward the edge of the canvas.
The blue eyes of the sky,
an insect mouth hovering, too, and blood,
and more blood. And eyelashes that floated
to the surface of my menudo that night long ago
after our car flipped in the heat of Escárcega, Mexico,
spinning, rolling over and over through the wet jungle-
green in our 79 Saab 900, the splintered glass a canvas itself
in front of me when we somehow landed upright,
tropical rain washing everything.
Now, appendages reach skyward,
and black lines designate space the way
a meteor might fall into us one day.
Yellow falls and falls upon things,
green but a faint memory,
that blue central something
echoing into the low distance where
we may soon turn circles in our vehicles, flip
and tumble into no color and no light forever.
Upgrading to a paid subscription will help me greatly in the creation of this newsletter (and in paying my bills). You can make a one-time contribution HERE.
You can listen to my podcast on the works of Ernest Hemingway HERE
You can make a one-time contribution and Buy me a Coffee
good stuff
I remember your account of this accident. You’ve married this Kandinsky with your Mexican tumble in a powerful reminder of how frequently art and life reflect one another and interact. A very evocative poem 👏