MOUNTAINS

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