On an empty
stomach, aching the miracles, lost and found at the crossroads—such a crucifix,
arms tugging at me, the baby in the crib, sound as a curse, bodies as aging,
youth swift to pass away; my hands have done freezing, haven, heaven, hell—some
grave haunting at inception; a guffaw in the background, a sin dangling in suspension,
strange animals.
So tender the math—spatial
geometry, when it comes together, we’ll be early for the feast.
I would if and
only if—those winds so impartial—searching for ultimate experience—always gawking,
mouth agape, the longing I live.
On an empty stomach,
eating at hope, seesawing above sulfur—those battling self, hating breath,
accursed—and blessed. Life is filled with chores, women are filled with life,
men are fraught by existence; those deeper corners, family essence, energy
propelling itself—
seabirds hovering low—above themselves,
atop suffering, if to have such sentience; some oceanic desert, some earth mannequin,
so mangled by sky events.
Parched, thus, thirsty, seeking a
gift; slathered by reality, whirling in circles, if finding life meant locating
closure—the mountain chase, the idol at its sin, so amazed it keeps forward.
