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One day you slowly wake up the body still covered by night & nothing happens nothing is remembered, her name out of your mind. You touch your chest and feel something that had not been there. Maybe a pin, a little miracle

hanging from a  dusty church wall. Your heart, cheap metal, red ribbon, in place of a vanished memory. You touch the skin around nipples and feel some kind of trace. One day all names will become silhouettes, the footprints of hunted animals.

Profile for Ernesto Priego

Days of Flowers  

A hay(na)ku chapbook.

Days of Flowers  

A hay(na)ku chapbook.