in spasmodic dramaturgy
Performing a rite of passage
On those days, between
One dead, like a dry river bed
and the other, an anticipated dawn.
The days, or years in between
Open its bosom like a tropical desert.
The shadows one leaves behind become
Birds of the Western Sahara. And you too slide,
from birth and beginnings, to stories of
early spring and aborted winter.
Days spread out like an atlas
and you become the land and the sea,
pockets of displeasures and
spent out waste lands, fading
like vanishing islands.
The interlude is a life span by itself
Where you begin as an unhatched soul.
Design the routes of an insect cycle
and wait for the light, to flutter out
your butterfly wings.