Enero, 26

These tree trunks of legs
grown from the hips down
thick with a cruel moss
and scribbled to shreds
by wrens and squirrels,
these roots onto which
I cast the morning,
twist a comatic
turn on the buttocks,
a somatic quirk,
a momentary
unconscious swaying
in the waking breeze.
By the time the eyes
pry themselves open,
and grey matter chokes,
sputters and fires,
they’ve already worked
their magic, carried
me to the forest,
brought me to water.
By the time it comes
clear what cause I stand
on this earth this day,
they have been reaching
down for centuries.

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A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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