Around my neck who knows how history made a voice out of silhouette.
From my lips a hand tore
away in tragedy
that screamed for more.
Time was a pebble I threw into the bucket of space.
Today the pond was patient.
Swallowing from the hot dust
the stupidity of the shadows.
The light was hanging from a branch,
bending space like the surface of
a habitual dewdrop.
The mirror is red with rage.
The world is still glowing, next
to an enormous fire.
I picked up a shadow that was untouched.
I was just waking from the misery of being born in a place so big, I’d never see it all.
The streetlight turned red.
through the wings
under the sight of the moon.
No one dead has come back
to tell us
It’s nearly midnight,
there’s no exception
How decisive is the blindness
of the storm
& the twigs are still shivering
When murmur is no longer a labyrinth,
when I see the teeth biting the dark
and how the depths of earth
have been waiting for me
behind a cluster of
2 thoughts on “eleven short cantos”
cluster of soft shadows
keep on singing, hombre, keep on singing
The Ninth canto is proof offered in the form of verse. Very elegant.