Life’s tincture doesn’t blend, it pools around
the heart where malice of criticism never ends
as silence moves breathing.
The voice of a woman goes looking for her naked,
irreparable splendour with open eyes,
like a river of light and sound.
In villages without running water or
integral lights shining tint on mountainsides,
these are the times you want to pick up the phone,
even though you’ve nothing to say,
simply to synchronize small slips of life in others’
I carry a map with me on this journey
through chance’s corridor, scattered with answers
picked, chosen and discarded along the way.
I listen to the soft lost bird perching
in the tree.