It seems we are entering into an era of narrative poems. It may very well be as brief as the narratives of same, but it definitely does, with two poems to its tally after two days passed, have the air of an era.
Woman crossing the street
A woman crossed the street
but it was as if the street crossed her
as she walked on the warm damp asphalt
her footsteps formed gradual tracks on its malleable freshness
her feet left harshly their gradual tracks on its black infantile softness
like a baby’s skull
which pressed against firmly
changes shape and morphs into
another mammal
a bird
or a reptile
with oblique eyes
the woman walked on and the street passed her disinterestedly
trudging heavily below her feet
she heaved each leg before the next
with unequal toil
and sweat trickled through the trenches heavy across her face
false witnesses to inexistent years
—the girl appeared obviously older than she was
I could see it in her eyes, her inexorable eyes—
the pavement reached her with a crash
Woman crossing the street
A woman crossed the street
but it was as if the street crossed her
as she walked on the warm damp asphalt
her footsteps formed gradual tracks on its malleable freshness
her feet left harshly their gradual tracks on its black infantile softness
like a baby’s skull
which pressed against firmly
changes shape and morphs into
another mammal
a bird
or a reptile
with oblique eyes
the woman walked on and the street passed her disinterestedly
trudging heavily below her feet
she heaved each leg before the next
with unequal toil
and sweat trickled through the trenches heavy across her face
false witnesses to inexistent years
—the girl appeared obviously older than she was
I could see it in her eyes, her inexorable eyes—
the pavement reached her with a crash
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