a long stem of pulse_picture2

in the late, late heat of summer

crickets click their last relief-song.


when i wake from wise dreams

i will be a stranger to myself,


toddling this globe-head around —

filling it with forgetfulness


and random etchings: love, war,

electrocutions, flesh-colored candles —


asking to be filled with wine,

begging to be drunk.


just being alive

is a liability.


it used to be so simple;

it used to be seven white cranes


stretching in a parade, lifting their slender

necks against the blue-green blade.


to truly attend to



is pain: all you see

is a long stem of pulse.

a long stem of pulse_picture

-photographs by sergio mora




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