Shatter one of your veins, and paint your face. It is still night, no one will notice. Your language is still; Move your fingers, educate the keyboard, the sense, the hook: throw it! The angels demand you, but you do not want to hear them - it's not my day - Chant. You speak to Providence and watch the rain. The shadow of your mother accommodates the puzzle to one side of the pillow (she no longer exists). You feel the wind and the pieces fly, in the story of the asleep eye.
Navojoa, Sonora. Dic./18/2015