making room for the spirit of cesar vallejo, new year's eve

 

 

 

crow and the word crow

i called after it as though i were the bird;

crow, crow, crow, i cawed.

how it flew beyond the bounds of its word.

moving toward

 in order to make a knot you must turn something in upon itself. we are the small catches in body and time. god is the infinite which bends toward itself and intricately blossoms us.

before we are tied into existence god lays his kiss, a sweet little moth of gore, at the center of each knot, a delicate wound to tie around.

in our living we are drawn along the line toward that which will heal us. we flutter toward light and love. we do not understand that we will only fully be healed when we are undone and absorbed once again into the infinite.
 

all around that which we see is that which we don't see

there is something about being in the back of the car and travelling

 not knowing anything - but trusting.
 

colour

we drive along beside the field trying to capture the colour

but as soon as we stop the colour dissolves, or rather it becomes its singular parts, paltry sticks of grey and orange.

but as we were moving it was a distant blaze; it was a quiet inferno in the eye that threw out the eye and descended into the heart; it recognized something in the vein.

but standing here amongst the sticks i am lost; i have not arrived.


and so where does colour live?

move, young girl. run! faster! and don't look back. there is a wolf chasing you into existence;  it gives you everything you'll ever love.

the forest sings its own