The Undiscovered

Do you think high fences are enough,
or the careful grass or the perfection of paint,
and the people who water their birds,
that still fly away with a hurt song?
When the shrouded hills turn over in the night,
do you think you will then feel any closer
to the sand of other solitudes?
And at that hour when the ocean
has at last been put to sleep in the leaves,
will you then believe in the
breasts of women or the lips of men?
There are things in me, and in you,
that not even the weight of others can enter,
that desolate us and leave us with
voices of blue embers.
What outer blood could calm you now,
when there is so much always undiscovered,
and so much that you cannot translate
even to yourself?

A Sudden Sky

There is a point in the city
where I take a bend in the road
and suddenly emerge to sky.
There, the city slopes down, away from me,
to dip its morning feet in the sea below.
And it is all the more surprising,
because, until that bend,
I have walked huddled amongst the smoking hills,
the close, coughing buildings
of the human hive.
To arrive there, out of a tunnel of sleep,
and see that sky, endless, untethered,
it is as if someone had poked a hole in the suffocating day.
And I breathe, or it feels as though, at last I do,
or it feels like my lungs expand
with those slowly trotting clouds,
while the tendrils, the discord,
the discarded cans and loves of this city loosen from me.
And I realize, how I was never a single thing,
a voice against another voice,
or a blue flame lighting my own dreams.
I realize under that blueness
which surpasses every animal thing,
that there are birds of sleep, who without our asking,
weave such skies behind our closed skin.