Terra Brigando (poetry)


Nurseries of Stars

The seam between the past and the present presents itself as a piece of floss or a shadow.

Nothing much to hold the real and the imaginary anymore; a feather, the exhale of a breath, the arc of a wing.

We are all dust and ashes.

Bones. Organic material. Waste. Deposited dreams. Bleached memories of a distant noon.

So many nurseries of stars.

The synapse of a thought at the moment of its spark.

And what is time? But constant moments attributed to what we know as real.

But time is not real. Time does not exist.

The dead do not exist.

Do ghosts live in the realm of time? Or are they outlines in fog?

As a child, I sat at dusk in the empty hum of the backyard, willing something that existed to take shape.

There in the garden, a violet moth flits back and forth between the pumpkin petals of nasturtiums.

I overturn a log and view a dark, musty world where salamanders creep on tiptoes and curl between cracks.

The world develops beneath my feet as a photograph.

And the song of desire is not sad.


by Terra Brigando

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