Figure 1: Intuition

Image from: http://blog.microscopeworld.com/2012/01/hair-root.html

When they stand, hear them,

all your hairs together, not bristled,

but listening from the surface

of your own bedrock,

sweeping the air

for that unsung sense that comes,

el golpe a la puerta,

when your back is turned.

Trust the prickle of something right

the way you trust the waft of

a cake bottom burning, the taste of

mouldy fruit, a retracted hand

from the rose bush.

All the voices,

adding stones to your strata,

blocking the view of your ancient self,

heed the hair, instead. Take permission

from a thousand follicles whispering

Yes!

to that first flash.

Go walk the darkness, Qué Sabe.

Hand down your knowing, before the moment rests.