It's kinda like
a subway train
at 7 in the morning
moving through its vessels
you are late
and can't distinguish
whether the merchants
are epileptic or
if its their medicine
when all of a matter of a fact
the lights go out
and all you see
is the sound of grace
dancing through the universe
Her face so familiar
you think shes your mother.

Now you can
finally let go again
of all the references
of the world
you've memorized
since you were a child
And you can finally be
once more
a trapeze artist
a dancer from the eastern shore.

You paint with words
and the rain comes down
but it is gentle
and the burden of your flight
is lightened.
You are gray
and white
and red
but never dull.
You think of days you never knew
when the country
barely contained your madness
and your eyes were red
and the women slipped on streams
who tried to talk
but you were deaf.

It goes on
but your ghost is tired
and you write in blood.

-photos by salvatore bertucci & ricardo herrera, respectively

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