A nocturnal gesture accumulates through the jungle. Though it’s exchanged plainly, it is momentous in its insight. Outside, an obscured zone of metamorphosis summons the summer insects, a wife and a pair of red-eyes. They speak of a country forged in books of remembrance; a legacy of disappearance.
Sleep, sleep, sleep, I sleep on the ground in front of my house.
This invisible procession has come to offer peace of recollection against the narrowness of being. The foliage overflows and shades away the human centre. It becomes a cave of narrative, in search of the lost stitches of time. A broadening of feeling swells under the contained fury of attachment. Pure opacity. Memories no longer belong to their holders. Outside the window, nature is moving firmly.
If you can’t come down, I’ll climb up to the sky, give me a ladder.
A body lies in half-shade, bewildered by the meaning. Anodyne and infinite, it dreams backwards, to a time before history started flowing.