Dust your hands
while the sun melts in the grass;
the conclusion’s a dark robe
covering a promise broken
in love’s fog
or a fire in the wind,
a deep stream of
verbs and words.
There are doors bending wood,
warping smiles, sighs and sorrow
drawn with crooked lines.
There’s a realm dividing meadows,
the fauna of urbanization,
where grass doesn’t grow and lack
of oxygen suffocates its people.
There’s an arena whose ambiance
releases women’s wishes that colors
lightning in their eyes with praise.
Somewhere fish and turtles
travel miles along beaches —
like veins exploding in your hands,
like an exposed breast,
like fear or safety.
I hear a cat screech in the night,
when the birds fluttering flight
goes higher than the serious light.