shewasavisitor

My gaze is nailed into the fog of a dark and vast landscape of crooked trees and pools and puddles and dried up ponds. Far beyond I’m stretching the veins that carry the blood into town for the ghosts and the midwives and the cobblers and the priests to trade and hypothesize, and let them talk. A prenatal sentence of thirty years left me with nothing more than all I need. And now that I’m free and running wild and wicked I’m staring with disbelief at the blunt and bloody hayfork I’m holding. And the quirky shapes and colors of mud, emerald, brick and bone, their beauty unfolding. The water keeps running, it always runs down, it never runs out. And on its track, springs and wires and dust of memory slide and stick. And while you fuss and complain it slips past your toes and your fingers. I smile with my feet as I walk on the branches and twigs and the roots of time and watch the stuff that you threw away with absent hands and I give it names like new born babies. And I pick them up and let them go and try to get lost and forget who I am every second of the day.
–Bruno Patyn