Blood Smoke

I am unaccountably sad this morning like a boy who recalls his prior life beside a river but has no words and the memory is without images, it’s nothing more than smoke in his blood.

Sometimes when I stand I feel my dead brother behind my knees. He was my twin.

It’s true: there are mornings when the first word that comes to mind is river.

Sadness is virtue. At least in this life.

Steam rises from coffee.

Water pipes groan Inside the walls of this strange hotel.

Cesar Vallejo, I love you.

Soon I must enter the day, leaving my kindly ghosts here in room 233.

It’s possible to be deeply sad and yet hopeful.

We’ll never know each other. We have no language for blood smoke. None at all.

 

 

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