sexta-feira, 23 de outubro de 2015


i strain to hear your music.
it  is distant but comes to me
in a language i can understand,
then folds into golden Sanskrit,
a graceful Arabic swoop
or  the Russian Cyrillic  i  once
almost learned.  it is
the unknown brushing softly
 against the nape
of my neck,  the pounding
of the monsoons  across the
rounded curve of earth before
hills cave in and plunge into
thick black mud.  once it was just
me and my dun pony, my  bare
legs pressing its ribcage,  and the
villagers who had never  before seen
a surface so milky and unprotected.
in my dreams i have been everywhere.
yet the planet still holds its secrets,
its dark wet clouds that open their wings.
they gather me up, offer me 


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