A Phone Call I Haven't Yet Made

When I realize that the light is brief;
When I realize that water burns and trembles;
When I realize, suddenly, that the salt of the earth is the same that I collect in my hands;

When the opening door won't let me in;
When the herbs of your voice don't come out the way they used to;
When the wine I heat weighs down like the armor of a glance;

When I'm heading out and I trip constantly, unendingly;
When the table breaks like an invisible bubble;
When black pepper and balsamic vinegar aren't enough;
When the fish tells me what the sun already told;

When I consider that I'm afraid, that I rip out the roots,
Fog the window with mouths and mouths;
When I consider that I'm afraid of
When time inundates itself in time.

Una llamada que todavia no he hecho (soneto)

Cuando me doy cuenta de que la luz es fugaz;
Cuando me doy cuenta de que el agua arde y tiembla;
Cuando de pronto me doy cuenta que la sal de la tierra es la misma que recojo en mis manos;

Cuando la puerta que abre no me da permiso;
Cuando las hierbas de tu voz no me salen lo mismo;
Cuando el vino que caliento pesa como la armadura de una mirada;

Cuando me voy saliendo y me tropiezo constatemente, interminablemente;
Cuando la mesa rompe como una burbuja invisible;
Cuando pimiento negro y aceto no bastan;
Cuando el pez me dice lo que ya me dijo el sol;

Cuando considero que temo, que arranco los raices,
Que empano el vidrio con bocas y bocas;
Cuando considero que temo
Cuando el tiempo se hunde en tiempo.

Funeral (or, Love or any other sorrow) (a sonnet!)

Here you are, epitaphs:
Once there was a world
And the world was gone.
Sleep, then, and tell us of birth:

Long ride down slopes
Of January's leaves,
Magnesium-colored world.

If a wolf were to hunt me,
And I, fearful submission,
Then my eyes that day would blare
Just as loudly as these tears.
Love is carved in so many places.
Hands like parchment.
Eyes like parchment.

A Guide

Dangerous waters inside
this bed: paisley
changed like the roaming wheels when
this bed bucks.
Our guide book tells us hotels,
amicable food stuffs
and our future of childhood dreams:
sweater-vests I could not rock
if you paid me
and torrentialy loving you: time-
tables, maps, clutter
like a crown you dance with
around a maypole.
Stay diligent, stay the course:
the forests, admire the pampas
and remember it is only
a double, so please stay close.
Do not stray. We will brave
this sea together, these
alien greens. This is the path
we've chosen: cloudy,
with a chance.

imagine every other stanza is tabbed over a tad...also the prompt was "Who are you?"

Walking down the hallways

of Longmeadow Street

mythologies of autumn

and scarves like time around my neck

winter is passing and

there is another six inches.

Wind and violins

orchestras stoke that

flue inside the living room:

empty save constellations

of fires unused or

passed--where is the

synaptic drive
where are we going?

Ancient myths like

stars like finding, telling:

this is an island this

hand holding mine, this,

mine. Winter again

and another six inches

fill the coffee cup.

Open city, love. Open

city holding mine

though when it breaks, it

breaks holding cities

holding mine: warm

full like quick cups

of coffee

Once, though, we were soft.
And terrible was the thought
of hindrances and winter
though I loved the idea of snow
covering our sweaters--
we, hiding inside our belts, our waistcoats
tough, which once we were.
The country, the wine,
and indelible the company,
when suddenly swiftly they go
out the door and out to
the country yet again.

Terrible that thought of
yesterday. Bits of salt
transformed into pieces
of cork floating in the
waves of wine. Soft, love.
Hold hands and sway slowly.
Take your temples in your
hands and sway.

Walking In My Own Country (old, but revised)

I suppose the reason the snout
and upper jaw is missing from
my old plastic Tyrannosaurs Rex is time.

It's an old device to evoke the clock,
my own wall a quick museum
of successes and failure.

I got rid of so many books.
A favorite, still here, dog-eared
and coffee-stained. No, it
must've been torn off by me
or chewed by one of the dogs.

There's another dinosaur
with its horn filed down halfway.

What do you even begin to say to the morning,
as if the pillow were yanked
and shoes suddenly put on your feet.