Night, dense indigo in the shape of whirlpools— kusikos— or a kaleidoscope of flowers— sinan-sabong— Dream blanket to confuse and distract malevolent spirits hovering overhead— We all want to walk in protection: harbor and hill, fields tasseled with grain— How do you single out the tune meant for your ears only, filament spooled in a heaven of foremothers? For years, you squinted at the light that came through a faraway window, pretending to catch its milky drops in your palm— There you are in the garden, amazed at how the time moved so quickly, a stone that finally learned to lightly graze each watery crest instead of sinking with the weight of its own resistance— The crepe myrtle trees shed their tattered tissue but you don't know if they're entering or leaving their grief. You yourself pull at threads: weft and weave, your soul still anxious about stitches and holes— A thimbleful of seed, a mouthful of feathers, a box filled with all the words you remember—
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