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.
-photographs by sergio mora