The night sits cross-legged outside my window,
and makes me want to flee these hands.
The night is a voice of orchards gently breaking my heart,
and I remember the small feet of a woman,
and how the night once touched them, like a wounded boy.
I don’t want the night to bring me this memory of desire.
I don’t want these nights of love to describe the ruins of my sky.
But the night sits cross-legged at my window,
and calls for me by an old name.
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?
Sharp forest of oceanic pines,
a toxin that inflames giant seabirds
and drives them to the annihilating shores.
In the opening of the sea flower,
the awakening of the wounded whale
that cries beneath the sand,
and a pleasure that assaults a coast of disintegration,
a song of salt-invaded girls.
In the shell’s soft folds at your core,
the voice of the sea is unassailable.
What enters us overflows,
while the stones that vibrate in the surf
propel us toward the deeper ecstasy of loss.
We, the ones already marked for death,
find here the vessels of other lives.
It seems everything wants to disappear
in your white clouds of cumulus fur.
Even the early summer sky
is tamed to something smooth and un-reflecting.
What doesn’t plunge in
and never reemerge to this place of
And we know that the day can only begin
once it has passed through
the terraces of these arcane eyes.
Whether it rises like a garden
full of dreams or prey,
or falls beneath a shadow of roots,
depends on the way you will
flick your listless tail
in the moment of your rising.
White cat in the garden,
is it that this hydrangea path,
like all things we are surprised
to chance upon, springs from you,
in this long hour of the fierce guardian statues?