Monday, August 13, 2018


          for Katherine

Osito, yes,
it’s true,
you are small,
so curious,
stuck in
wide-eyed wonder
with open arms
and mitts,
but Osito,
your voice
is a strength,
is a sonnet
is a strong wind
the trees lean into
in order to
hear your story,
the one about the
woman who lost a boy,
though on some evenings,
like this one,
he still comes round,
a jangle of joy,
his ghost wearing
that familiar grin,
playing his strings,
sweet music only
the night can gather.

Skin Music

I sample
the music on
your skin,
each impression
and sonic groove
dappled in the
sweetest sweat,
the generous texture
and timber an echo
I’ve missed so much.
Your sure kiss is a
chorus on repeat,
a punched up crescendo,
hair like downy cotton falling away,
air spiced like saffron,
everything either
electric or acoustic,
what does it matter
now that we’re here?
On the other side
of your skin,
light through the window
lays lattice tracks
on your back,
your spine, the one
stuck up bone down there
waving a white
flag of surrender
that says
Enter With Caution,
but Enter please,
and Hurry.

The Night We Met Again

The night we met again,
it rained, soaked, poured,
and it was not even evening,
though it felt like it,
the rocky corners of a bruised car,
of new skin, a day
broken open by possibilities,
a first touch, a long look,
hope stuffed inside
those clouds that stared
down on us
without any questions,
a frantic race
of time,
of pulse,
of nervous ticks,
building like thunderheads themselves,
wondering what’s coming next
and why it took so long.


Where does anything start?
Head full of rain,
empty canyon
inside a chest,
so that even echoes squelch themselves.  
Where does anything end?
Teeth chattering on a platter,
nails in the eardrums,
waiting at a bus stop with no direction home.
Where does anything (…)
Eyes plucked,
heart a strangled bird,
blood smeared on every unsent page.

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