Again, it is colour I remember.
Not octagonal, not collapsing inwards
like defeated butter, the way father said
we wouldn’t, if we truly were boys.
I am always receiving messages from people 
I haven’t met. The understatement of her 
heel. The smells we could not name
without comparing. But for comparisons, 
would love be here. The wind bends trees 
like cotton puppets while inside this room 
nothing moves without being lifted.
The revolution of a seed in air.
We have let our dialect avoid our throat, 
there are no flying men. Think of
the opposite, says the wise one. The way
the ancients from the East did. Now
all of a sudden, tradition is good.
Ink was blue when I learned to write.





The mountain air must see 
time as passing in present. 
The elders say times have 
changed, as though they’d 
forego a year if it was up
to them. Days grow in them 
like a potato. They see
their body as a map
to the country’s center
from where the young 
never return the same.
Nothing is spectacular, 
without a reference. Or 
does that change? Snow 
traps everything for a while. 
The river stops flowing.