At the end of summer they burn the house we live in.
See the hooks of a change
bigger than words
clawing at the shut veins in the leaves.
When the thieves come to scavenge
I put your hand over my mouth
not really a mouth.
Only a bowl of fermenting yucca
in the half coconut shell.
Dear Mom,
they’ve stolen my mouth from under her hand.
Now they can burn
everything. The winter seagulls are already
at the guts of alien carrion. I don’t
recognize a thing.
Supreme thieves are in the order of greater events:
they leave a mythical confusion on which we build
our next lives
Thieves, Seasons
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