amphibi.us

they say hemingway could step out of his room
and mistreat his wife
after caring so much about sailor santiago
and
his battle with a shark on a small raft
off the coast of cuba.
but once on land in la finca, outside
of the world of his imagination and the cold walls
and the hard floors of the estate
facing him instead,
he was cold
as the waters off the coast of newfoundland
to his real-life wife
mary.

strange,
how we’re so comfortable inside
and outside the proscenium of the skull,
too often barren of feelings,
the rivers of our hearts
suddenly empty,
unable to flow, unable to give
air.

plants die and persons cower,
as the monster from the room
loving himself only,
now tramples living things far more
precious than his mind can
ever create.
there is something about
the tranquility of live objects,
and more destructible,
than the flitters
and filters
on the other side of the wall.

there is something
about the ephemerality
of the imagination

that preserves it and protects
it in that
strange cell.

© Carl Kavadlo, 2010

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