A Perfect Circle

My day in endless loop,
I pretend, at least,
that there are tomorrows
loaded in a cosmic gun,
that go off with a bang and a bright sun.
You see,
there’s so much I should be doing,
and outside a world
to love and reject,
to take out on summer walks,
to fight with in evening streets,
and forgive in shadows of tenderness,
presses up against my window,
and peers in.
But I will lie here
in the thickening moods of myself,
while the day is lost to the sky,
while the knots of my love untie,
and the birds of the dusk rise and fall.
I will lie here on this floor,
in a room smeared with gold,
and cultivate stillness,
as a rebellion against the promises I’ve kept,
and the hours that march us all
to scaffolds of life.

Night Poem VI

I fell into the night’s dark hair.
With both hands
I held it to my face,
I breathed the full bouquet,
and my eyes were afflicted by
a dying and beautiful hour.

Where do I go when I sleep?
What sweet lives do I nurture,
that are gone forever
when the dawn comes like a murderer?
The one who danced behind my eyes,
where is she now?
What was her name?

And is this sense of loss,
that haunts me
in the too sordid light of day,
any less real?

Night Poem IV

Voices sleep in the night,
bodies quiet and alone,
all cries drawn inward,
and love kept in its hold.
Anger subdued in its kennel,
and regret floating above their eyes.

Trusting the night,
bodies laid out,
display unearthly banquets
for the devouring moon.
They are infinitely fragile,
the most brutal hands,
the most vehement lips.

I sit at my window,
and the air is thick
with the voices of sleeping animals,
the ancestral echoes of dreams,
the long dead in their earth,
and the death preparers,
cradling their sweethearts
in the white sheets of the living.

I sit awake with the
self-forgetting all around me,
like a witness
to the night that goes
erasing their brief bodies,
and I am sad,
and I am in love.

Savage Night (Owl Song)


Listen, that one voice
translating the night.
Suddenly, I too speak
from the owl’s dark mouth,
the way the night
speaks through holes
the trees bore into the stars,
those sky wounds.
A single voice, a lament of wings,
the lament that soars with dreams.
I had thought my life
like an impenetrable hour,
a warm stone held
in the palm of my silent heart,
until the owl came
to cry beyond my window,
that messenger,
crying the savage night.


Fierce white feet,
paddling harder and harder
going nowhere
on the bristling waves,
somersault of light,
a foam of dolphins
drenched their glistening fears.

Player piano and the
drowned musician,
mazurkas of the forbidden heart,
it killed us with a bowl of fruit,
a single pineapple that
reached the shore.

Round and round in circles,
fierce little feet,
their widening wake,
carrying the laughter of
their skin.
I thought of spiders and seabirds,
things that never dreamed of death,
or burst pipes,
or a broken coast.

And the children trailed their toes
and combed the sea’s green hair.
She shuddered at their touch,
she welcomed their kisses,
and the paper boats that ignited
beneath a flaming feather in the sky.


There was love in the room,
full, opening to the bending rafters.
She was a bouquet that
spilled across the bed,
while a basket of fruit
exploded in my face.
There was laughter in the room,
it echoed like a cathedral
of white love spasms,
when the sky knelt in prayer,
and the world obeyed the moss.
Laughter in the blood,
swinging from body to body,
two bodies scooped into
the sun’s morning paws.
There was love in the room.
There were bouquets
of exploded hearts.

The Last Days

I know it can’t last.
Letters like armadas lurk in the mail,
termites eat the rafters and the pantries,
and insects drink up the wine
of the last tender nights.

But still today,
in all its flawed eternity,
was gorgeous from start to end.
For I was a generalissimo
in the true nineteen thirties sense,

a dissipated poet,
a Chinese monk arguing with the waterfall.
I lay defeated and triumphant
amidst the bitten and wounded fruit.

I plunged headlong into the girl’s doomed skin,
while outside, the morning grass wept.
And when the stones had all fallen,
I paced the market for luxurious fingers

and indulged the sun
with light caresses in the palm of my hand.
Nothing faltered,
and no one came to collect
the hours that poured from the open windows.

We were all left alone by the authorities,
the pick-pocket billionaires,
and the pulverizing sky.
Like fools of the very last play,
we laughed at how easy it was
to take back our ancient fires.