what fills a part, with car and cattle
on the checkpoint, my prayer is interrupted
sacred minute, I still cannot contain any dry thoughts
not wet with curses mixing
like soup on this cold winter afternoon
even the sky darkens;
the line of clouds scatters like cotton
above my head, too many sunsets
seen, like a discoloration amid a traffic jam
this is the case of longing
for movement: to keep is to contain
a small hand in yours
a sun in the belly of this sky
a child throwing a packet of gum into your car
a prayer instead of the curses that hail on the realization
that to contain you have to grow bigger;
to fit, to keep intact, a smallness.
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