Riding shotgun, I look out the upper right corner
of the windshield, writing in a black
and see a dark thing: a dot,
with a wing, twirling and twisting, (convulsing parenthetically),
almost intentionally, as if it knew what it was doing,
only to spin out of control and out of my view and into the bottom right corner
of the black-rimmed box, (the windshield), into places I will never know, and towards people
who will never understand what I mean.
The son of Mexican parents, Ulyses Razo is a recent graduate from the University of Washington, Seattle. He writes poetry, fiction, creative nonfiction, film criticism, and is a translator of Spanish language prose and poetry. His work can be found in Voices, Capillaries, Bricolage, and Phi. He currently resides in the state of Washington.
Photo by Jan Kopřiva from Pexels