you are my bread
and the hairline
noise
of my bones
you are almost
the sea

you are not stone
or molten sound
I think
you have no hands

this kind of bird flies backward
and this love
breaks on a windowpane
where no light talks

this is not time
for crossing tongues
(the sand here
never shifts)

I think
tomorrow
turned you
and you will
shine
and shine
unspent and underground

~~

this bird flies backwards, 2019
poem by diane di prima
storyline, photo: underground flower (halo) + rasheed mirza ⁣⁣
printed images by ladislav kyllar from novembre magazine ⁣
dedicated to the memory of nathan axelrod