Nunca – Napowrimo Day 11

I was inspired when your lakes were suns,
and children were words in the air,
and days were an easy shadow of eternity.
It wasn’t our exact death I was looking for:
It was dust
more credible than memory,
pain more cruel to be divine.


The Last Life – Napowrimo Day 9

White steam from drowned ships.
Love against the sea and summer,
an invincible smoke of the dead.
The last eyes.
The fire of light that blinds.

Landscapes – Napowrimo Day 6

Sometimes I wake up
when the night’s in full bloom.
I feel the sensitive pulsation,
the reflection
of how we loved the sea
and our summers alone.
Now light tells me
yesterday is other landscapes,
time and asteroids.
My soul feels beautiful in your shadow.

Vessels – Napowrimo Day 5

Born with the day,
a gradual loss in seconds,
my eyes look at this way of being.

The double smiles that I’ve known,
continue and ascend the light of fatigue.
They’re immense in this field,
yet they aren’t known
behind mirrors,
where their names are undressed,
diffused between lamps — mortal.

I wear a long mourning
of vessels and bodies,
my revelations never stop
without traces of regret.

Night – Napowrimo Day 4

Your touch is more complicated than mine.

My identity is deferred,
suspended in the curtains,
on the broken wings
of a fly stuck on the glass.

Into the night’s arms,
I cross the avenue,
the alley and two clouds.

Napowrimo Day 3

Of things that my love once contemplated:
Sound and rain,
images in the park
lost amongst the black fluttering butterflies,
Children’s mouths calling like
red bells ringing.
When the sun was in my eyes
I rediscovered the waves upon the sea.

Your Promise: Napowrimo Day 2

They’re your streets
of nakedness inside gloom,
they betray your words of

Fauna awaits the fog while
balsamic colors
cover the window with
a dark tunic.

Victory is Theirs – Napowrimo Day 1

lead fairies’ carts into battle
the light of ascension flows free

The Haircut The Sunday Whirl #265

There’s doubt with our talk,
her words in the air
mingle with mine,
each bit of hair​ she cuts
falls away wild
to the floor
lost and loveless.

The mirage is real:
seagulls searching for light
circling the shore amid the smoke.

The future of day breaks in our eyes
fallen bodies
shaping September
it distills time cradling
boats in the water.​

I Call Him Solomon The Sunday Whirl #264

​Coexistence throughout the course of summer:
From distances,
there’s power to approximate me on these roads
as it doubles my vision and
links me to the private signs
existing in hidden languages
mutable, or unspoken.
The body of her laughter emerges from the room
from here to the bridge,
I hear a man’s voice of fable intentions embroidering
​figures in the tapestry of flames
it burns creation where it can be dreamt again.
Beloved in memory my angels are veiled and
frozen by widows who mourn death,
I have been with them.
My hands inherited lightness from him
discovered amid the sparkle.
Bees forever love a flower’s sweetness.