Violeta García-Mendoza Revision Edit out those things you would not believe in: the corner the wind made, the curve of the sun being poured, honey held in the mouth like forgiveness. Forget. The language lost, you've no name to call the cost of your wanting. Still I could speak of that house of tears, trail of straw. If only I would, then you'd misremember it all: words burning like tents you would not bow before this no longer love. |