Good evening, still the correct day, ready to sputter out.
Water. The cave-drip condense on the inside of your throat. Alongside the walkers. Cultivating swimmers, divers, drinkers, lovers who seek a concretization of the cleansing wash in their hearts. Water. Heritage, family in liquid form. Fills in the letters, pooling in the double grottos of W, spilling over the rounded escarpment and giving rush to the river passing through the heart of a, drips off the cross of t like the encirling drips along the edge of a rainy umbrella, gathers in the cupping hand at the base of e, slides down in silky drops along the stem of r. Water. I gather some and surrender it to you: my history, my past in all its errors and glories, the most minute portion of my composition. Drink.
No comments:
Post a Comment