paper

as pulses of memory lace the bloodlines in my hand into landscapes of rippled skin, I feel the urge to touch the veil, the velum, the imperfection of paper, the heart of the tree offered but never white. Something will come out, as if the silent organic conversation was yielding matter into thought. I never think of the caress, it never crosses the page, nor the mind, it just happens and takes me by surprise. I close my eyes and start to write, from the rough bark to the smooth sapwood, carving each suspension of the hand in the air like a tai-chi dancer, nowhere to go. Resume and try again, relentlessly, giving my hand to the pulsation of the pulp that heaves and opens traces, laces and rivulets, veins running wild...

Nov 07