Molly Albracht Sierra
Meet your imagination here remotely lit by narrative;
it expects language to rise from the rug

When language is tended to, I’ll have more faith in you.
To spouse a word demands connections.

A story doesn’t argue the structure of cognition
when framed by cultural perspectives

of beginning, middle and the thin moth of imagination.
Until tomorrow’s project exposes the West

to a wide spectrum of dialects. The sky overhead will then be revolutionary.
Or: the sky will return itself in the gaze of another.

When words are kites, variable tones, two station angles of phrasing,
the adult period of human life is spent either longing for or yearning to escape

the homeland. What is ionized by thought often ends up often drowning in vowels. Therefore, language yields to a source beyond the work day.

The body lets itself into a musk of sentences.
The camera zooms in to notice how hair is pinned behind the ears

on the woman whose lipstick reflects the sun.
You do make figures weighty enough for poetry.

Beauty, an important curve in negative space,
chooses the day to arrive like a suggestion.

I like to surrender to the chimera of a blossoming city.
Nestled at the base of your imagination, love & my heart are still a mirror.