by eduardo c. corral from slow lightning
the skin of your deity smells like gasoline
your prayers are added to the pyre
a gold wheel spinning
once your voice broke out in a sweat
each word a salt lick
there are fingers rooting inside a violin
orchestral maneuvers
in the middle of the pandemic
you mistook a group of ghosts for an orchard
you, coward
fingers are rooting inside a violin to pull out
the last scraps of birdsong
a gold wheel spinning in your mind
like insomnia
rápidas manos frías/ retiran una a una/las vendas de la sombra/abro los ojos/ todavía/ estoy vivo/en el centro/ de una herida todavía fresca ~*madrugada* por octavio paz
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