I could hold a foam sword towards you
but only from a distance must it
look real, this bluff of mine–

unzipping my mouth like a coin pouch
to reveal its teeth would do little
no words would change into a charge of bulls

a faithful distance
for the harmonious well being of an  aging
heart that needs a steady home that I cannot provide, this bluff of mine is played –

adorned with this old regalia of indifference, so heavy it stops me from running to where you are, forgive me—

every time I grow silent and distant it’s a bluff not on you but on me who loves you. The bluff is one me—

I recall winter willows
over playgrounds wisping their smiles
and stretching theirs limbed branches towards me

Whatever should I do,

workin up the courage to knit a sentence or two to make something warm that stretches like their thin arms do
long past me to you

whatever for
winter has passed and summer rages around us


But the round yarn ball is still red, the end of its string has been tied to you

I recognize the longs leaves of the willow and I recognized you
I am sure they were there along before

Just as the seed was there before the thinness of the willow touched so we’re you planted dormant

One sparrow chipped up a storm
from a light post
adjacent to the worn bus stop’s bench
to the patch of grassy forest behind it
then proceeded with its city pilgrimage flight from light post to the grass three more time on the fourth descent,  I
was surprised it landed next to me chirping, I couldn’t not help but say hello and smile

I scrape old paint off of my forehead's wall
I am smoothing it out as we speak
I got a new finish-my words of self-love are the final varnish

in all the in-betweens where i tucked my notes of sorrow
                        I have set little fires that

i move around putting out fires from year to year

Point your eyes at the flowers,
not at the harshness of the rocks
sieve your words and throw away
the ones that clump up with judgements

The one who looks at the granite sharp edges is just as precious as the one that looks at the bellflowers

Las horas son como ciclos de consuelo
que dan vuelta sobre la manija del reloj

la veo- toda mi tristeza en la mano grande de su cara que gira sin parar

Es necesario voltear la mirada hacia otra cosa aunque se la mosca sobre la pared