Saturday, February 14, 2015

Brick of History

This brick—this one,
right to my right
on the terrace
of a Himalayan cafĂ©—
this brick reads like braille
gets tickled by bougainvillea
and loves its neighbors.

This brick looks
like sand gone solid.
It is the face of time,
sun-chapped, ruddy
wearing the pocked
skin of its youth
forever on its aging face.

This brick smells of cellar—
secret-scented. It hints
of rooms beneath streets
where roots break through
what man has made.

This brick sounds
like the wind, like centuries
of flux from every place
earth’s been dug down into
to pull up clay
(shape, fire, stack)
to build back up.

This brick would taste
like history if I licked it—
savor of fog and wind
blurring all desires
through time.

This brick feels
like solid chalk
like it’s flexing its muscles
like it’s about to speak.

I wait.
The bouganvilla
shivers across it
saying shhhhhhh.

This brick blows a kiss
to its cousin in Kansas
then whispers—
Keep holding up
the crumbling world.