To Be

I was lying in a field,
surrounded by wheat like
jutting lances waging war
against the sky. The clouds,
confused, travel an impasse,
to be raked by the claws
of trees, black against the light.

My lips are the stage of love:
parted, parched, but red yet;
and kisses, rare now, tickle yet,
though players of today rarely
own your subtlety. To crawl
is not to kiss, and yet the touch
shares sometimes your intent.

The gold of my hair weaves
in among the nests of rodents
and small birds, and settles
where only roots and worms
have comfort. A corvid also
found a treasure—jade—and
carries it always. To be
useful: This is paradise.

In spring, the flowers blend
into the sunset, forgetting
to exist; summer bleaches them,
and, wearing dull smiles,
they accept all; autumn
burns and buries them;
winter lets them rest.

On the Death of her Lover, my Brother

Dry leaves
softly stirring,
soundless.

Dry hands
with paper skin,
harsh bones.

Spanish:
Mi amor, mi amor!
"My love."

A smudge—
mascara runs—
bruised eyes.

A smudge—
the make-up thins—
bruised palm.

Spanish:
¿Por qué, Dios?
"Why, God?"

She cries
like only she
has lost;

she mourns
only what she
has lost.

Spanish
wailing; gaudy,
for show.

The Traveller at Sea

Turn again; face the mist:
somewhere lies the fading shore
of Providence.

My mind forgets, and yet
through gates of horn come dreams
of memories:

Sunlit days spent with you—
who drown eternal—fill nights
on shiftless seas.

I turn once more, and search:
not for that celestial shore,
but land at all.

Segment of a Winter Renga

Winds cut through dry grass
and icy dewdrops shiver—
The wolf is alone.

The river of heaven gleams
above echoing laughter.

Men circle a fire
sloshing wine into their beards.
Wolf cries; smiles flicker.

In a village far away,
festivals pass uncounted.

The moon waxes, wanes;
leaves burn, fall, and fade to ash.
Hollow women sleep.

The cold wind steals away dreams
of half-forgotten faces.

The grain rots afield.
The ghosts of former evenings
shimmer in the wind.

Skin

The message that I sent
under the ink of my letters,
around my spoken words--
on my kiss:

Soft fingers down your spine
whisper on your skin,
which shivers back
the same sigh.