Friday, April 14, 2017


Play riffs.
Shuffle data sets with nimble fingers
to wager on ideas ordinarily unspeakable.
Grind words into fine dust
to scatter over waiting earth.
Peer through houses made of paper and wire
built on a gravitational field
under an absent constellation.
Expose scar-work to sky.
Strum strings with tender fingers,
interrogative recomposing
of the spectrum of braided time.
Dig through finite territory
with an empty thimble.
And sleep on rich textures
of other people's maps.
Learn your recipes;
prepare for the harvest.

Christine Fojas