The long exhale
Following the deep, deep breath
The moment which moves
Between the change
And knowing
There is no going
back
In a mind
Bent on manipulating them
To serve the present
I scramble up an ebony mound
To find a landscape of ebony mounds
Growing to distant mountains
All of the same ebony skin
“At least,” I think, out loud
Into the air so dry
It swallows up the words
Right off my tongue
“the falling sun seems less
Like a fire
On a cast-iron skillet.”
Like waking up
In a strange bed
In a strange room
Trying to find
That one thing
That one point
Of recognition
A silhouette
Bicycle rickshaw
India
It’s like swimming through a sea
Of stems and raspy leaves
The stiff breeze wrestles up a wave
Which rolls across the grassland and trees
A moment of cool in the sun roasted air
Which clings to my lips, dries my lungs
Up the hill
And through the woods
Round corners
Through the trees
Over roots and rocks
In every little town
On every major street
No matter where I went
All eyes fell on me
Pix to Words 