“Y haciendo cosas que rompo
     para arreglarlas y volver
            a romperlas paso mi tiempo.©”

It began one day in a hot bath,
when the bathwater whispered to me,

            You are bathing in prehistoric tears.

A fine, kinky hair of a crack ran down
the wall and I was washed away,
everything was made fresh. Old souls
with old eyes. All broken
over Time’s dark thigh.
A vase, an old phone number, a box
pieced back by hand, re-awoken,
and rejoicing in the thing.

It’s strange, I know, but art
loves it so, to see these broken possessions
so baptized in heart.
A harmonica, an orchid,
a freezer-full of snow.
To make life less hard,
and keep immortality close.
To make prettier the passing down
from the dinosaur grief of losing their footing
on earth, towards the human grief
of having to do the same.