Trafika Europe 2 - Polish Nocturne
and not to spill a single grain
Your mom welcomes you with half-empty sugar packets in her palms. She takes them for dollars.
They perch like fledglings; the puffs of white grace awaiting their take off
“Can I hold them?” you say and she slowly deposits them into your hands.
Each grain of sugar carries its own trajectories of longing
Like the centrifugal leaps of your mom’s neurons make her grasp the inscape of things.
One needs to be an oracle to hear an oracle
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