zora said there are years that have answers
but I can only find them in fugitive windows of time
night constellations stringing my insomnias
into a garland
of anxieties that begged articulation
pleaded with me to chase the frames
to find the ways of seeing
(did we ever learn to do that?)
until one moment one night perhaps an incipient morning even as if those demarcations absolve us of something
something breaks quietly imperceptibly and gently spills
an offering at my feet
a surfeit of words
that write me
Reblogged this on Unhappy is the land without heroes!.
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Gorgeous
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