Friday, November 18, 2016

Notes on containing

We called it a container:
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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