song of the silent

We have reached the end. The wind agrees
and has ceased to blow. Thus my hair no longer
tosses, and you’ve nothing to brush off your
shoulder. But still I see the force of your arm
slyly show itself, your hand reaches for something -
I don’t know what. Flagging down the life
disappearing on the horizon
as it deepens, layers of red, magenta, gold
falling to the night? Or waving good-bye, hope to see you again, until then, fare-well,
or raising a question, begging for the clarification
you know will never come,
or maybe you thought I was turning to go.

But black enshrouds the spirits,
that no one may find them,
that they themselves cannot see, and must feel their way.
It is in the black
that the butterfly dances, too modest to be seen, too alluring.
Black, where the creator unfurls night.
A tiny pink flower lurks in the deepest black of the cave –
Only he who enters with the breath of night
finds her, and only he knows her secret.
Silence echoes, and the low moan of wind
breathing life into the pink: a shiver at the touch of night
becomes a shudder with hour
as hour explodes into seconds,
each with its own breathless eternity,
its own petal quivering,
its own secret unforeseen,
unlocked.

stirs me and

in the offbeat I wonder quietly: did he see me that

day he drummed

thunder in
to nothing

and I watched -

nothing in
to lightning

and when you face the creator
I am here, too, crouching behind a tree.
You’re smiling and with a
touch she takes you and I weep.

Do you know
that you unleashed the world, spilling
its contents for me
to peruse at my leisure?

Today the rain painted
pearls in the sky
and I smiled
but the beam faded
with the setting sun…

only poetry raps on the window and
beckons into the night
when I’m awake and missing you to death.

My heart beats to your dum
explodes into metaphor
building
a tiny ripple into a huge wave! Splashing through the night and into the
next day.

One more drink and we’re floating in the middle of the ocean
with nothing but time and the rising moon.

The truth is I want our bodies close,
so close that you can feel me tremble,
so close that we might start a fire.

let the leaves fall from their heights

you see how easy it is, losing yourself
to water music.
hear her breathing, the rise
and fall of her chest,
vital as the ocean. and the current. water trickling up to the tippy top,
the ballerina’s shoes she’ll soon fill, then someone comes along,
a someone with music
and gushes, with her, down
to deeper waters.
the moon tosses in her sleep

As long as you understand
that we are, in fact,
waging battle
and you will emerge
the winner.
Be not gentle
when my spirit descends
on your ambition.
The stars, upon the watching,
deem us equal, and
equally obliged to balance the other;
the wiser and more wholesome moon
lights the circle of our dance
with translucent irony.
Ever leading, ever trailing,
we creep
slowly like words fill a page,
each deliberate;
combustion foreshadowed.
From his perch, the quetzal blinks confusion,
having spotted
illusion
leaking from a pen and
staining (not sustaining) predisposed luminosity
with love abundant.
You may inquire
as to the technology of my fall,
but for fear of distraction,
let it be
so long as every blow strikes
and every word tells.

don’t hesitate to hold my hand
she screamed and was silent,
sun circling overhead
slow as the sea
breathes,
coughs up a few shells

why smile?
his face swirled in her coffee
reflecting her own sentiments