L'aura del Campo

Nightmares and Nosebleeds

Written in two parts then juxtaposed... for now. One is based in the reality around me; the other on...

Nightmares and Nosebleeds

Nightmares lurk under the pillow. And from my nose—red rivulets running, running—brown stains on the dusty sheets by morning.

Pine cones, ants, stone and sand...

I am searching for my letter to you and wondering why Alberth isn't where he belongs—beside me.

Strands of dry grass, new sprouts of poplar...

I have no clue which country I've journeyed to. I'm searching, searching for clues.

Sprouts from old roots.

I've stirred the dust of three weeks away, the layers remain from years of not caring.

The balding tops of old trees.

Dry air enters my mouth, exits my nostrils.

Low water burbling, no rush to the sea. What I see:

I'm normal they say. But you know better. How many letters have pointed the way?

green where roots reach the water, bare where they don't.

44 hundred pages I've written and still the nightmares remain hidden.

Clouds tease blue sky.

Heat rises to the third floor each day—and each is dryer than any future before me.

City sounds dampened by trees and river.

Blood seeps into sheets. No water left for tears.

But never silent. Never the way it once was.

© Kåre Enga [13 and 14 avgust.2016]

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