Bremer Acosta

plastic eggs
cracked open
in blades of grass,
she pushes her brother

through
the moss of
wet rocks,
a splash

white trees
lean over, leaves
bare through
the beat sun

miles
above
the last
tree,
a jet
glides through
clouds and blue

breeze
shaking
the dew
off

yellow
leaves,
a cardinal
fluttering
over a twig

in the spring,
two snakes
dry across
the mud of
each trail,

flies
swarming
over their
chewed
black scales
and blood

she
trips over
her own feet
in the field,

a raven flies
off near the
dandelions

--

--

3033:

Born from
the wet
tar of
industrial
lungs,
nights of
refugees
shivering
huddled
in domes,
looking out
of windows in windows
at a smear
of horizon,
their eyelids twitching
until they rub them
with their fists
like
flies were writhing
inside their pupils

In the spring,
they breathe in
a yellow…

--

--

One day,
if we do
nothing,
our secrets
will become the
crying pain
of our flesh

Yet we
so often
lay
uneasy
in our
dreamless
nights,
not knowing
who we are
because we
have rejected
ourselves

We forget
that we
are
all our
ancestors
and the
wind

In a
desert
we have
made out
of our years,
we want
cross the
sand of
night,
we want
to find a
place that is
more than
we are

On our
naked
bodies,
the moon
meets
the
shadows
of a hidden
sun

There
is no one
to guide
us

--

--

From the texts of Alan Watts and Philip K. Dick

All change

takes place in

eternity.

There is no

past, present, and future,

There is essentially timeless

static.

Time is a transformation,

metamorphosis;

invisibly

overlapping realms

of secret

possibility

from no clearly understood

cause.

The immediate now

is the flowing

music

from the infinite

multitude of

lines and

surfaces,

colors

and

textures,

spaces

and

densities

which surround

us.

--

--