I Merely Transcribe

My house gets wet. Inside, there is a monotonous flow of assonance. Fragments of sunsets seeping through. I would wait for the light to slip through the gaps.

Outside, it rains and thunders. Later, fireflies will come to populate the garden. Like a mass that is rotting.

The general remains on his horse. For days, no one has known anything of his health; only notes of protest are written, and planes fly low over the cane fields. Though it is only a tangle of sparse scrub stubbornly trying to bloom. Everything goes to ruin.

The industries have given up spitting out their waste. Nothing grows that can be chewed. The towns, the people, the dogs have slowly gone dark.

I open the window and the rain has stopped outside. Inside, small containers line up, making the little hell more bearable. I have letters left, damp from the rain; I will have to spread them out like butterflies in the sun.

I could write the saddest verses tonight, write, for instance: blessed be the stone, for it no longer feels.

Or say that I think of you while an old quilt wraps around me; it would be ridiculous, but less frightening than telling you. This subtle summer where I live is a grandiloquent thesis. This is the Caribbean; that winter of pantomimes from the advertisements does not exist here.

Only swarms of mosquitoes and flies that rot everything they touch, and the sun, omnipresent ally or enemy.

I hear the dogs, though they are not mine.

I am at the window, but I cannot bring myself to go out. I do not want to see the sky.

I remain ill; my soul has gone wandering along the coastlines.

I merely transcribe.

Image created by me, based on a prompt in chatGPT and Qwen Ai.