Forest trail

What if I whisper incantations to the moon,
late when the stars drown with mist,
when the mist drapes the lack of the sun with sugar plum dances,
low, my voice races me-
I will enchant these hoots with nothing but bearings,
 charms, sentiments and a little of the breeze I kissed
to send away, to corners of earth further than my body

What if in the dead
cold forest, all I do is dig up
the soil piling round my face,
dirt splashing into my light, curled hair
I drip, sweat into earth as I look
this is, I am sure the last spot I left, here I lost-
the earthworms gather
my sighs

what if you are there? I probably pass by you every day
let the dog rest for a moment, perk its ears
in an effort to hear the trod,
the voice not present, your wrinkles still developing
growing like mushrooms in moist and stopping
in their tracks,

leaving me with these untended questions
when I go deeper into this ground, this forest,
this voice of yours, the denim you wear starts
to feel real to my unused skin,
 starts to feel raw against my flesh
what if the incantations I whisper to the moon
are secret prayer?
let me find you, it's been long enough
tell you what, it's about time
I let you find me.

I will not write poems

Tonight I will not write poems
smelling of sawdust and rats and morning
puke by the coffee's side

tonight I will not write poems
the size of the Atlantic
too far are images, too big metaphors

tonight I will not write poems
that jump rope and play skip
the stone, sometimes the boundaries are already fixed

tonight I will not write poems
because the taste of oranges is still in my mouth
too soft and tangy unlike poems

tonight I will not write poems
I have not lost anyone, nor gained anything by waiting
other than my faith running out of Elixir

tonight I will not write poems
of exile and of home
what you return into is boxed in memory, alphabetically

tonight I will not write poems
my hands are tied and my eyes are merciless
the voices make up most of the space I occupy, every day

tonight I will not write poems
not until the last star turns off its lights
and goes to bed.

Crow

Every single day the crow sleeps
convinced that she will grow red feathers
beyond her ebony glimmer,
that at a certain point she will
willingly turn into a vision,
with a voice soft like morning larks
chirping water into crystals
the conviction holds her by the tongue, the reddest,
the harshest to manipulate her daily rounds of ranting
the crow knows what works and what's best for her skin
yet she knows, the darkest of spite, the harder it is to hide
dye, coloration and disadvantages of managing time
by the call of each new morning, the crow awaits
the turn of tides, into red, the color of apples,
the glory of sin and beauty, and fatal attraction.

The city

too much happens here,
the streets are widened with nothing but the anger
of the banners, the shouts
repeating echos
we have men and women who need a call to the street
to pave new lives, others to dot old letters
into comprehension, so that new literate mothers
can read, anger in fancy words.

so much happens here,
there are old walls and solid stories,
here are walls one leans on to watch
unzipping, the day ;
three cars whiz by, one the color of blood
another the valley and one packed, like pickles
humans upon humans in this disastrous city
I watch as the sky turns and think of the unsold oranges
on the cart in front of me, ample is this hunger and sweetened
I think, in the city
no one looks humans in the eye any longer
not even the shy kittens screeching the corners for a life support of thrown
trash and jugs, void of milk

so much happens here,
the hangings of washing like the hanging of men
it's set for a grand display,
of well versed, sharp linen and grazed eyes
the size of almonds, minuets the sound of fury
there's what you see when you
open your eyes

so little happens here,
this is the burden of small cities,
they wear mantles bigger than their shoulders
loose-fitting so the sins of pregnancies and the failures of men
do not show on their skins
but that's the grace of small cities,
they, unlike me
can easily find balance.

A dare

He drew a map and asked me to set out the borders
like instructions and constitutions, these have to be made
with barb-wire and pointy watch-towers
I took the pen and drew
water at the foot of the mountains,
birds around the land, soaring with eagle sight
and a poppy in the middle of a rocky
terrain, a little bit above the face of a cliff
I called it the capital and begged that he only
learn geography from those who plough
the wheat only to relate to land with reference starting
at the north-most tree to the south-most pebble.

fantasy

There are things we cannot control,
those thoughts when they roll on
like films, quick to latch
leaving grain and negatives of newer topography
the places visited stick,
regardless of our means of disposal
burn, shred, ignore,

there are things we cannot control,
like the change in the weather and the shadow
collector's corner, in vain you can try
to change the hour, the rays, the starts
of the current as it moves

there are things we cannot control.
like these thoughts heading north of earth
heading perhaps towards a body of imagined muscles
a body made by scents and old dreams
burnt-out at the end of ash-trays
thoughts that aim at a direction

the thought of you, now naked
in the dark of a room, glowing
with stardust, the thought of my head against
your skin. There are things we cannot control.

there are things we cannot control
like half-drunk poets
raving love letters to women long dead
and half sober poets
imagining the remaining creatures
alive and prospering
things uncontrolled create mountains
these become in time, silent volcanoes
burning

nearing springs

Frost bites the land
removes the green grass, limps
onward like a lamb
 promised of a nearing spirng