A LORCA INTERLINEAR
A crooked path
Murdered by heaven.
Between shapes moving toward the snake
and forms in search of crystal
I'll let my hair grow.
With tree stumps that don't sing
and the child with a white egg face.
With the smashed skulls of small animals
and the rag-soaked water on dry feet.
With all the exhausted deaf-dumb things
and a butterfly drowned in the inkwell.
Bumping into my face, different every day.
Murdered by heaven!
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