i give in

this act of giving

is a successive thing

i can not hold moments

time, it takes me

little hans playing by the shoreside

his castle keeps tumbling, such grains

like rain they shower on his blood-plump hands

come back to me his mother cries. she is young

he will come back to her because he must. like this, 

i give in. she holds out her arms, which he fills 

dearer than the lover, his heart becomes 

the eye she sees with. clear and 

simple. blue beach, brown sand

there can be nothing else

one sun, one moon

earth.

i give in. 

waking

every day
behind the
multitudinous bulk of activity
the contractions of muscle
the movements which shape
what you are wearing and
the taste left behind
in your mouth and even
the words with which you swallow
the world around you

behind this lies
in a simple moment
not too long ago
the infinitesimally sticky
parting of your eyelids

that first sight
tearing the fabric
of your non-being

self portrait

name

i have begun to write poetry
for girls who are not real
with names which linger on my lips
long after i have met them somewhere.
they travel quickly
like little birds lost
in the branches of large trees

even you are not anything
but a name and an event
occuring to me with
everything you own
the hair you grow
and the soft scent of peaches
you carry into the room.

poem in progress

his saliva unzips my flesh
i spill things i have concealed
over the years: a bowl of dark hair
tangled around a fork
a pitcher of your tears
gleaming in the moonlight
a lost button from a shirt
of the child that never was

emptied, i rest in the hot sunlight
where little children plant inside me
sand castles and candy wrappers

when a nearby bird screeches, i flutter --
a fleeting brown dress, a
metallic zip.

allow me to assemble you tonight

once i heard a joke or a sad story
it made me cry until i lived in tears
shining pools of them around my feet

i could have drowned, remember this
instead i gathered and formed them
this is your hair now- so keep it safe

i will be careful outside it is quiet
and cold, birds trapped in ice and the
sun choked in blankness

i can't allow you to trim it, you
see what a waste of tears cheap
puddles on the ground that would be

words

words are a bleak currency
syllables find themselves like silver pennies
jumbled and arranged, rearranged
whisked away and glued together
torn apart, spit on in streets,
determining fates

well i bought you with words
we bargained our positions. a little bit
here, little bit there. we make concessions
one fine day, we will open a bank
to store words of our own
secrets and endearments, fears
among other things

but words can be traded
and as such i will come to lose you
to the solitary glitter of wishes
that lie at the heart of a fountain