“I think we are climates above which pause threats of storms that take place elsewhere.”—Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet
What then, this weather
of strange balloons
and vanities engorged
like blowfish bladders
purpling to the point of bursting?
Who, among us,
will gather the sentient crackles
of a given storm
and secret them
away in a wicker basket
where, at a much later date,
when the sun has passed through the clouds,
the basket can be set on the grass for a picnic
in an imaginary park with invisible friends–
yes, imagine, you are a kid once again,
with all realities open to your gambits–
who, then, do you become,
when living according to whim and fancy,
and the kite-tailed night-birds of the heart,
you embrace the manic music
of the seasons,
and come to regard climate,
personal or otherwise,
as a cauldron, seething and bubbling,
seeking its rightful sorceress.
John Biscello 