April 13, 2011

What can I say that you
won’t eventually learn firsthand?
All cities dissipate into the night.
A horse leans wayward into the wind.
The grandmas of my youth are dying.
Love—everywhere—is lingering on a thread.
A moment will arrive in which you
won’t remember the beginning.
Just keep whispering life into art—
A dog waits to steal food from this plate.
In this silence I’m lonely and needing touch.
There is a horizon there I cannot lean on.
These children will never hear Japanese,
eat a crepe, strum a guitar or play a piano.
If your life were put to beats, would you dance?
A gently sloped syllable so simply says it all.
The bitter fist of experience finds
answers like roots out to water.

LOCATION: Laguna Rocha, Uruguay – Sleeping inside a shack after coffee with a fisherman’s family; the early morning winds blew so strong that my tent wouldn’t have survived.

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