Clamboring, chiming, turning inside out for lack of space
Urging in one cold grey wave of fur and teeth
Lolling tongues, hot breath, slobber and frenzy
From a distance, life resembles a dark river
Cutting through early frost, hungry for warmth
And I think of the man who paints this bleeding scape
Of land into water and flesh undulating, back to earth
I wonder if he knows better than us, how close we are to one or the other
By just a pinch of his ink stained fingers, held up
To guage perspective, before he dips his brush and renders
This mist of mouths, graves and birth and sour roots, twisting through
Surviving even as skies douse and sun bakes flat, yet beneath myriad
A soup of souls closing and opening by ritual of tide
And still, life, clops down the cobbled street, hawking seasons from basket deep.
(Inspired by FEDERICO GARCÍA LORCA, especially the line, han venido los perros de plomo.)

9 Replies to “From basket deep”

  1. The beauty of Writing, of artistry is… inspiration.
    “This mist of mouths, graves and birth and sour roots, twisting through
    Surviving even as skies douse and sun bakes flat, yet beneath myriad
    A soup of souls closing and opening by ritual of tide
    And still, life, clops down the cobbled street, hawking seasons from basket deep.”
    What the mind can do never ceases to amaze me. This is good, Candice. Very good.

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