By: Miguel Carlos Lazarte

Escaping never-endings
I am left a story in half its wit
When it returns, the pages scatter
Numbers – in eye – by paragraphs
Like a shroud encumbering
The soul
A comet, heavenly; floating

Half-remembered characters
It flips through them
A thumb sifts finding
Eyes that stroll the buoy
Fingers coursing through my leash

The nose reminiscent of the
Skin caressing the leaves
Mounting in the sensate
Dance of the body
The tightening

Broken bones and stellar homes I lay
A long-lost prodigal
Fragility