Nothing's in the nest. No needles. No newborn ravens.Maybe something like night in the deep hollow,an eggshell planet, cracked in the middle, an empty bowl of soup.Nothing's in the nest. No thread. No webs of words.Maybe something like my navel, the eclipse of a magnifying glass.A slice, mute with regard to its empty depths.In the nest, nothing. The web unwoven. Dismembered.In the space, something, yes. A piece of cloth. Sounding like flagstaking wing, a worm in its beak and suddenly, eyes, my eyeswhich, cutting across the empty air, direct themselves at something noiseless
over there.
Valerie Mejer Caso.
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