Is there a container built to hold our mistakes?

How long do we wait the filling before

we close the lid, wind it tight and begin the work?

Of watching : staring after the pattern

that will lead us to a name, a name

that will take us to :          will we call it accidentally

sad or a manifestation of choice?

A concern for surfaces.          

A transcendental algebra          that lied?

Will the notes belie this—the sky

is what cuts permission around here

: your orphaned skin a lovely hologram of early sun—

then abstracted,           ossified lights and honeycombs?

You say : what is safe                          is alone.

Mi huérfana : what if the sea lifts for us like a sheet?  end