Night Poem XV

I turn my back and laugh
at the corpse of the day
with a knife in his back,
a smile on his face.
Around him,

the eunuchs of my memory
slumped and lifeless;
they tried to pin the deed on me.
I have no time for these stragglers,

their parrot-like recriminations
that keep me here
in the sun’s dead temples.
There are thunderstorms,

horizon devouring winds,
that will forgive me this violence;
they ready me for a pure and
uncompromising shore.

It was necessary to become
the self’s inexorable assassin,
to put these enemies of my purpose to rest.
On the other side,

I will be essential dust
in no man’s night.

A Different Life

What secret do I hold,
you ask,
where do I find in this
uncertain place
a wind of promise,
a map of belonging?

There is no familiarity
raised around my soul
that endures,
I confess.
Instead,
a future palm,

a mischievous beckoner,
sometimes grasps me,
leads me to ever increasing
continents of vulnerability
and boldness.

Do you think that only
I hold this secret,
that alone, I arrive
at the equatorial flower’s
opening song?
But you ignore

your parallel self,
its pitiless multiplicity,
as if it had come
un-tethered from you;
and yet,

it leaps and plays beside you
in an unseen ocean,
where you could learn to
fear again, your own impossibility.

No, I am no different
from you,
but I have conversed alone,
trembling,
with my
reckless love.