If every one of my precious traumas were a glitch along my spine,
I would have to skip or hop to travel top to bottom.
And I would fly fast over each treasured ill so as not to see too much.
For if my eye were to hover in slowest content tears may have to create a river to mine the canal of this my soul.
Yet one ancestral movement passes through all that. The seeing so intricate, the knowing so molten, any trauma nurtured and unmoored.
Tim Hurst 11/13/17