A continuation on last night’s Dancing Barefoot post.
The plot of our life sweats in the dark like a facePatti Smith, Dancing Barefoot
The mystery of childbirth, of childhood itself
What is it that calls to us?
Why must we pray screaming?
Why must not death be redefined?
We shut our eyes we stretch out our arms
And whirl on a pane of glass
An affixation, a fix on anything, the line of life, the limb of a tree
The hands of he and the promise
That she is blessed among women