Читать книгу Body of Render - Felicia Zamora - Страница 18

The cattails golden in the afternoon’s low sun; smell of dried sap releases in each crunch under step; here the trees & ground prepare; say, smoke of what burns; how we all carry on wind in our delicate, our smallness; one must completely disintegrate before; think phoenix; & you so close to combustion—you long for anything resembling flame; this dirt path, travelers before you; how we bind to each precipice before us; your hand in lover’s hand; how in one moment: a guide, how other: lost, so lost & smoke of the burning fills you.