movement

I write prologues no longer,
but epilogues to grapes and tides

and honk the horn as I drive
across the horizon of the day after

driving

here you are, in my car

so perfectly yourself

so perfectly you

so perfectly

next to me at the wheel,

where I overlap her ghost

and have become

perfectly she.

freedom is indeed

a concise ache for it implies

nothingness & free fall,

driving with no brakes

through the black hole in the

sunset-bleed sky

into the darkening ocean.

I roam the world

over the cliff

summer's end

amidst the late-summer hills,
at the still heart of the
sunlit bougainvillea cottage,
we kiss until we are one
on the old kitchen table
in the cool shade
and the pantry smell of
ripe apples.

hold still, as
She becomes you
and You becomes she
and moves on
to a world of her own.

it is alright now
we've become We

I, abraham

the river narrows into a           sombre still pool

in the black cave of
ancient drawings,
unforgettable horrors,
world-ends cast in rock,
and the stale air of doom
-- why do you do this?, she asks --
to be sightless and
hide from these weathers:
I am more familiar
with desolation and
a ghost as vast as history.
what must I sacrifice
so I may roam the world again?

Photo Historas de Cronopios

bed of roses

it all seems so easy
our hearts flow effortlessly
until we poke a silly joke
into an open wound
and discover the mind-numbing power
we have over each other

headlong

of course it is early
of course I have to make a conscious effort
not to plug her in the hole in my heart
not to confound her with ghosts
not to erase her own life that I love so much
of course it is early

the alternative though is sheer
horror:
losing her
losing myself

cocoon

in this first weather of so many to come,
her radiant face pervades
the liquid orange light
inside the warmth of our sphere of
astounding wonder and skin aglow.

around our sanctuary of glass
dragonflies scuttle
across the humming lake,
scouring the hours, while time
slows down until we are
entrapped, immovable
in its golden treacle.

all was new
when we emerged at dawn

ready

sanctuary

           under the hot grey sky
           casting microwave radiation.

       at the dark heart
       of the jungle.

     deep down
     in the ravine.

we locked ourselves away
in the sanctuary by the blackest pool –

no food, no sleep, no water, no light

– and buried our teeth in each other’s shoulders
engulfed in the fluids of our souls
until we became
a single steaming ghost
never to let go
ever

severance

ever more rarely now
you join me in the tomb that I guard
to shed a tear with me
for old times' sake,
oh my roadside companion family
of all these years through
which we were there for each other.

but at the end of the day
you always return
to the homes that you still have
of unsevered lives
where every hour and every day
have not been amputated.

you throw stones at me now,
bible-loads of them,
because I will no longer guard this tomb
for all the pay I get is the deadly silence
after the daytime crowd is gone,
and I soak your popcorn in my tears.

we were eight at first, then briefly seven.
count me out as well now, for this
boat, this house, this no-more tomb,
has risen anchors.

the doors are open, the river is wide