Your army swills down the country lanes,
and toward mi pobre hacienda, its
battered lack of oranges. Each soldier is
infected with time: the rising night feels
like an insect walking on their skin. Once,
I might have invited them to cool
their tortured nerves in the river's syrup,
listen to the birds' hunger songs, a music
of spirals. But today, I receive no visitors.
I am reading up on horticulture and boats.
I am making a plan of attack.
posted by Reen |link| 0 comments
