Thursday, April 06, 2017

Outside the cities run... Elia Casillas

Outside the cities run, I still stop to enter the well of August, and I only see the parenthesis that I hold with laughter. I return by my bones and the fingers arman the moment of this involuntary condemnation where I write. The chest closes its dark sentinels. Sun by the way I go with patience nowhere, the stained glass of my moon loses tones and my flesh is dirt and empty in the puddle of blue. Darkness, in the canvas that the infinite ignites and love revives the light of the comets with its most beloved beast.

Navojoa Sonora. February /2008

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