Copihue Poetry

Fresh bread is what we want, the furnace listens.

Our childhoods off on the wind, but blood rises back to the source drying all light, the song sucks at a breast a sob hardens. Throat barren before the blank score, what harvest prickles? Each bird, no doubt, in mute regions knows its coldest season.

Mixed into paper or ground into the heart, the word fructifies our trees, cedes to our ages prairies that flow beyond every edge.