Julia

Fondled by the E-minor

of a Gibson guitar

Residues of laughter, particles of old air

The rain is measured and gentle,

drizzling down

The wine is a minute older

The meat, a tad colder

Julia is dreaming, awake.

The Jack London book

that she never read

angers through the violin

which is intent on outdoing the guitar

at least once before everything ends, while

July’s fragrance mingles with

the soggy biscuits in the unheeded packets,

the exterior reduces to an insipid story.

Julia wakes up, and

looks at the old wall clock -

a stack of silences collapses

like a pack of cards.

Nights collide with each other, and days

tear the sun apart to scream:

“Julia, Julia, wake up, Julia;

Julia, Julia, wake up, Julia!”

The wall clock checks

the sequence of her memory.

Julia has skipped a long minute,

or maybe a diminutive lifetime.