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| Juan Osorno: A Little "Internal Estudies" series. Decembrer 2015 |
you hold space, composed
cradled in an unmarked palm
whispering "trust"
to old bruises, precise
never concerned with
a flinch or recoil
dismissed, perhaps
as something you think
you've seen before
wretched little thing, so-like
nerves coming back to life
compelled, stoked
by a jaw-locked audience
pretending to sleep
we bump into each other
stars that swoon in concert
sprouting, born quiet
woke postures align
coming into this mouth
constellational guide