To touch the
sidereal limits with the hands
— Otero
.
Gone are the stars
that are not the sun
That punctuate
heights no longer heights,
Heights become
space. Things I will never know
With my proximity
senses are gone, all gone:
I will never hear a
star upon this earth,
But I feel the warm
gusts your wings stir up.
If in the daytime I
were to leave bread and fruit for you
You might come
again. I am not so different from
The mangrove swamp
where you play.
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