A Prose Poem by Brian Michael Barbeito
I think I see something as the sky turns red in the horizon. There is a blink. Then it goes out and the tree-line is gone, the roofs different, the forest watching the river. I only have a few minutes. Once before this happened and I went to get a camera, but when I arrived back to this place, the sky was gone. I vowed to never make that mistake again.
I could only make a mental image this time. I thought of spring, the time nearer to summer, when something about smell conjures the memory of older times when they are fresh, when they are borne, when they are happening—
My grandfather in a wool sweater too hot for the weather, stealing oranges off trees in New Port Richie a couple hours before dusk.
A girl I once knew, by an old town cathedral in Centreville, and how the aged city was beautiful and had a sort of delicious decadence that could live inside your spirit,–right on the inside, right there. For an instant I was back with Annette watching her beside the Mana Loa motel as the waves from the Atlantic came crashing in not a few hundred yards away and when I looked to the horizon again because I had looked away, the sky was still there.
Tall libraries lonely in the afternoon, but with some glee and something like that around them.
Strip clubs, the smell of the beer and the women there.
A dream of an apocalypse where machines fought in the distance in a bombed out city. Of course, she was there. She who I could not have known forever, but somehow had.
There are a few moments left. I try to think. I even try to burn inward a bit, where the Ajna Chakra sits. I think I see something as the sky turns red in the horizon.