Scattered

words don’t belong to me

Images even less

look down for roots

nothing else than scattered bones to the best

pieces of shrapnel, wine bottles and gall. 

maybe they are up in the purified light of laurels

seeds of regenerated angels stacked

in piles way up before the riots.

I cover the sidewalks

different shoe steps on the medieval streets

of the city

small branches crackle

path to myself in landscape

look for prayers, laying in fertilizers

when I was 12 we had an amazing relationship

when I liquified in my grandmother’s yard,

in your presence everywhere

roots were growing from me reaching all of you

until I tied you up, I knocked you down on your butt,

I pushed you on your back and I was laughing

I could hear nothing more than my laugh

I wiped you out like a wave, your ubiquitous presence

a blue jay landed on one of my branches

that was all that it was left after 12 years old.

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