You favor one side when you sleep
lean into the silence of the whitewashed wall
crumples of paint dust a veil of blanket.
I carry quietness in the hollow of my chest
slip into the folds of night, the sleeve of silver
under the bridge of your even breathing
worrying about the trespass of your space
but the light of the full moon emboldens me
to take the moistness of your palms in mine.
Photo from the Web
I write to you sitting in the core of a large tree
ringed with silence.
I have fit into a plinth small to hold the kernel
of your breath.
Sometimes I think your voice has an aquatic form
over my moist skin.
Light from the street pools in your palm curled in
the hollow of my neck.
The leaves fall on the sand coppered by light along
lines of hunger.
Urge grows to hold the red distilled from plumeria
against your throat.
My desire stretches to fill the space between
two grass stalks.
It takes two hands to clap
silence languishes in a vacuum.
She presses her elbows on the table
gets up to leave, a spring flows calmly
across her face as fury wrecks me red.
The seasons unfurl in her chest
monsoon curls the edges of her hair
that flutter in lazy scrolls
the skin on her waist a gentle turmeric
in the moistness of summer.
I knock around the cave of her silence
fly above the landscape of her stillness
scan the contours of her body dip and rise
as I hold breath at the nine gateways
in an attempt to douse the fire.
She is the water drop on a lotus leaf
no grease marks on the stove
clothes folded away, dishes rinsed
on the sink. Being born afresh
is like dying in the right sense.
The calendar says today is good to sow seeds
sweat glistens his back as he bends down
into the moistness at the lip of the earth.
River bears sludge of memory of the high summer
slants into the pores encrusted with dust.
After being sodden with every ounce of light
the leaves tune into a core only the sun can reach
in thumps of energy folding through the membrane.
Distilled by wind at the ascent of the day
the fragrance of jasmines cloys the bees into
a slumber of breeze that carries to his limbs
to the thighs knotted in toil scars of tissue
along the length of the tree to the darkness of roots.
Symbiotic green his veins braid sinews of wetness
as the calcium from bones leach into the soil.
Eyes cast down
I watch the pebble
honed to its simple tone
Watermarks of story blur
in waves of desires deferred
Thoughts never rise out of the lake
bees unwinged in the circle of a full life
Who can map the path of the breeze
fence the clouds shifting over the hill
Logos is a headless tree
waving into the starless night
Silence spelled like the absence
Magenta is the closest color to the blood
the veins of bougainvillea roots under the skin
to the flashes of light seen behind closed eyes
on a summer morning.
April is the month of grasping – bleeding colors
smear the mercurial sky, butterflies spin dreams
near the window, the koels in swoons of longing
knot the tall eucalyptus.
The fruits secret several ounces of sunlight, sway
through helicoptering bumblebees dazed by the smell
of leaves mulched by the moisture trapped
in breaths from the sea.
All lives are connected
trees and plants are one organism
that nurture each other
the weak soldiered by the strong.
There is a warrior in my garden
the Plumeria tree that grows in a large tub
she has not a single leaf and will never
waste energy on producing one all summer.
She breathes deep and holds life
for pink protuberances to burst into blossoms.
In the tub there is a hum of roots, a stray
tomato seed waves pale and spindly shoot
a robust butterfly pea creeper threads
a nosy tendril into the air for support from
the naked branches. Blanched
leaves of honeysuckle vine trail
over the tree as they gulp mouthfuls
of sunlight for chlorophyll.