i am a strange shape
a coalescence of water and word
at the crossroads of chance and history
my heart is ten thousand years old
and my skin is new paper
to wrap old thoughts in
now i unparcel them
the esoterica of centuries
pour over them with a small torch
i can make no meaning out of them
which is not to say
they are meaningless
blackened, wizened, deep-based thing the late light scratches scarlet grooves in to the trunk and there are ancient reservoirs of fingernails and secret human stories and the wind is a blind carpente
after the rains came, & there was no me and you your face became a perfect guess which once I only knew, & other skin became a haunting thing, & every dream an echo in the hollow light of what it migh
i was perched on an arch of air floating in lakes of cloud shadow over the stitch scarred skin of earth, mottled with shrub studded with stone oaxaca just beneath the surface is some truth that can on