it’s too soon to give it up
the familiar galaxy I sometimes
feel beating the gape of my chest.
its flutters have wings, ancient and strong
and still, I don’t yet know how to make it fly; don’t (yet) know what to do with it
besides know that it’s there and it needs my tending like the non-stop
grass growing outback in the garden bed. I pluck green slender strings
for hours, trying to make sense of what else might be growing there too.
with hands of dirt that feel old and new but mostly old and
misplaced, forgotten, then remembered, then forgotten again. I tell myself
to wait, to be patient- the reply buttons and proclamations come
soon enough. but if it really isn’t going to be something,
if it’s never going to take its shape, if it’s all going to crash and burn anyway,
I’d rather know now; save myself the difficulty of trust.
right now, it feels like the most agreeable thing, but last week I couldn’t
make sense of it at all, like the galaxy was 9,292 galaxies away and not
even the milky drops of my karmic relevance could cause this inner
galactic galaxy to resolve.
about this work:
it’s work. writing. dreaming. being here. thanks for being here with me xo, S.
santos scribes 
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