Boot

There's a boot with loose laces,
the loot of time.

So worn, so brown,
so full of the dusk.
Not worth a dime.

Forgotten by the very soul
who'd let it drink
from every pool.

It lingers by the doorstep,
this confused can of nothing -
who knows what fills it up:
the shrinkage only grows.

The Canyon

Behind you
was a canyon,
steep and deep -
I couldn't sleep 
on your shoulder.

Naked, the darkness
bared it all;
spared our shadows
from the wall -
I tried to escape 
the freefall:
behind you
a canyon ...

I knew that the light
at the dawn
would melt the one kiss
that befell my eyelids.
And yet I let 
snow accumulate
on the roof.

But I couldn't overlook
your shallowness ...
Behind you
was a canyon,
steep and deep.

To Grandmother

Silver woman, upon us you had spread -
your face, a melting clock - you rose and fell
like tides.

I'd sail across the million wrinkles
and discover that you could still
carry the load of a smile.

To ride on the moons of your eyes ...
Your waning form,
your whines -
to know that I wasn't hope,
to know there wasn't time ...

I miss the rhythm
of your trembling hands.
And the square that made you walk.
I miss your silence as you watched
us talk and talk and talk.

How Does One Silence, Silence?

How does one silence, silence?
To prick a dreamless eye -
to unravel the growing fence -
to find nothing in the sky 
but a blackness dense!

Sometimes my breaths tangle
between my million bangles
and I look through the glitter
for lost life, time.
A nerve quivers beneath them ...

How does one silence, silence?

Undone

Dead birds, my Lord -
crooked hyphens down the road -
I drive down his poem and find
The Joke.

Blurs between my lashes,
tears that consummate nothing -
I read to myself
a broken wreath, a hurried breath -
crooked hyphens down the road,
an ode
to death.

Crisp like a script,
the wisp on his face -
I read him between the blurs -
and the poem,
a twist in the tale.

Smeared around the eyes,
the black lyric belies
its make -
every word towers a sunflower,
eclipsing the sun,
that is our love.

Between the hyphens
are our 'beyond the horizons',
but -

He Walks on the Banks

He walks on the banks of a book
and gauges her shallowness -
kept from her flow and stalling all music,
he sits his eyes on the surface
and dreams of a thirst he doesn't feel.

The river gravitates to dark recesses 
and shrinks into a memory of life -
he drinks this memory and dreams of desire.

And Tonight

And tonight he would take a poem to bed -
remove his glasses and let her be blurred -
he'd trace her with his fingers and she'd shed 
her form, her meanings, all titles conferred.

And tonight he would read her with his lip,
turning her being into a warm whisper.
And tonight he would all the darkness sip,
leading himself to the light that is her.

The wind will be hitting the windows and
Time would stand holding a golden lantern -
and tonight he would his existence hand
to a poem to forget himself and learn.

And tonight he would take a poem to bed,
listen as he speaks the forever unsaid.