A glance at the calendar with the wrong month, so
I cry
A stray dog follows a stranger, making
me cry
A pencil at the edge of a paper, leaving me
to cry

For forever did dreaming envelop his emotions
As creating his past, he remembered his future
that led to that wall, a brick brick wall
of which he filmed, of glorious
cinematography
weaving fiction with non into
magical realism
Of colorful dying in fast slow motion
or flowing long dresses winding silhouetted
upon the clear sepia hill
or symmetric bodies in industrial aesthetics
or the words: aurora borealis
or butterfly wings soaked in artificial light
or the girl with the cello,
strumming metallic chords that swelled
into auras, suppressing his being,
caving him into suffocation,
until he couldn't stand to hear more music:
(An experience he was most proud of.)

But of all things
the turtle-work shell print on the base
of the pool, a cool drift of film
in which he swam in as a child
for his only weakness was nostalgia,
that vast baseball field, the scent of summer
in the warm, breezy air,
with airplane sounds, mixing with lawnmower sounds,
drowsing his eye lashes, to flicker up from the grass.

For Oskar had made a vow,
an oath,
a plea,
a risk?
of insanity if he thought too hard.

But that wall, that brick brick wall,
on which children bounced balls,
but Oskar didn't,
and that plastic bag, just a plastic bag,
being blown about the wall, dancing
like a little child, pleading to be played with,
of so extraordinary in something so ordinary
he needed to remember,
so he filmed it. and loved it.

"My heart can’t take the beauty in this world”
While his doctor frowns.
"My interior doesn’t fit with my exterior”
While his doctor frowns.

But staring at that wall, that brick brick wall
and the plastic bag,
he couldn't help
but cry