Breasts can hang like a pouch upturned if unencumbered.
The tension of the nerves, the muscles cradle the energy of desire as
he arches his ache upward in an abandon of dance.
The kayak floats over the nautilus in the churn of time when no wind
blows from the other lands. He loops around my legs for a day
in a lazy embrace. When shadows mark the horizon
like a hermit crab that senses tremors in the sand he recoils
into the calcified memory of the earth. The waves
proliferate stories of our origins. As the evening turns amber
like the roots we brew, the bottom of the stone tub swirls in clouds
with the shapes of people we identify: many of them fell to diseases
to save us. The sand is pregnant with the lost ones
the flair of the womb mirrors the dead child I buried
when the tongue of the sun gouged the sea into a tsunami.
To be a good person is to carry the luggage all time
watch the shoulder sag under the bags just when you have cleared
the window to see the dew fall off a leaf, the sun curl in the space
Because you cannot crawl down the cave streaked with the feral matter
the tale of cosmology gathers in the line under the eyes,
cups the breeze stirred by the flight of bats. The traces that exist
are the arms of delusion.
A line of ants ambles over the rump of clay in a journey
where there is no place to arrive. You want to open
the door, slot the key into the hole of possession. How easy
to give that away by lying face down
feet waving in the air, grasping torques of amber light.
The soft pouches of tissues like bags of coins slump along the path
with missteps too late to correct, the metaphor in the throat
falls through with black ash.
Matter shifts in shape, moves along the thin line of time
in a hospital ward folded in the crispness of departure. The awning is drawn
taut to gather particles of sun from the face as the smell of paper
is wasted on the foliage of trees.
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