September 05, 2007


Outside Mont Royal station there is a market.

Rimes are sold, verses exchanged,
dissonances repaired and sonnets modernized.

A woman approaches, in want of inspiration.

This is all I have, she says to the poet-salesman,
her hand extended.

For that amount, he answers
you can buy at least one word.

She chooses randomly,
Twilight appears.

They congratulate her purchase.
Itís a very poetic word, they all say,
a key that will open many doors.

The woman returns home, saddened,
she feels her way in the darkness, turns on the light.

She does not want to open doors,
but to shut them hard.

She does not want to make poetry for those
who climb and fill the skies each morning, their
wide open hearts and shiny, clean hearts;
but for those who are just
learning to crawl
on the soiled streets
their eyes alert        .

—Flor Aguilera

Posted by dwaber at September 5, 2007 12:32 PM