i didn’t touch her.
 but the air
  between our hands
   folded
    like it once did
      when closeness
        meant undoing.

she left
 before the door shut.
but her presence,
 a tilt
  in the chair,
   a wrinkle
    on the bedsheet
remained,
 louder
  than any word.

you don’t forget
 the scent
  of not-touching.
you carry
  the warmth
   that never reached
    your shoulder.

i didn’t say goodbye.
but the room
 still hears
  her silence.

—

I.
Box fans and mowers drone below,
distant traffic murmurs through summer’s heat.
Memory presses: teeth and old thunder.
Regret. Punishment. Hope. Repeat.

My ears ring with histories,
sometimes cicadas, sometimes sermons,
sometimes her humming, barefoot by the creek,
sometimes the sting of my father’s belt.

Sunlight slants through bloated magnolia leaves,
thick as tongues,
slick with old rain.
It stains the walls with a color like yolk,
like aging joy.

II.
I wake in moonlight,
before the rumble.
Step barefoot onto concrete
still warm from the last sun.

The sky is full of stubborn stars,
hung from the last funeral.
I watch. I wait.
No birds yet. No breeze.
I stay.

I tell myself this is peace.
But the silence knows better.

Like a constipated
mule, the old man
limps toward me

saying, The end is
near—the words
falling from his mouth              

like congealed bacon
fat, then the young
woman emerges from

the churning sea—her
auburn hair, alabaster,
almost translucent

naked skin, fearless
like thunder, casting
a long shadow—The

world ended long
ago, she says, and
we walk onto the

emerald green great
lawn, her in the old
man’s cerulean

sky-colored overcoat,
and she points to the
tower—figures falling

from its large windows—
Fear of truth, she asserts
referring to the bodies

smashing like overly ripe
melons on the ground,
then she says, Your

classroom is on the
sixth floor, and as I
open the heavy door

she states, The class
is on how unnecessary
the class is—then adds

Please do try and not
stumble or trip near
an open window, sir.

Through the laurel branches
I saw two doves of darkness.
The one it was the sun,
the other one was lunar.
I said: 'Little neighbours
where is my tombstone?'
'In my tail-feathers,' the sun said.
'In my throat,' said the lunar.
And I who was out walking
with the earth wrapped round me,
saw two eagles made of white snow,
and a girl who was naked.
And the one was the other,
and the girl, she was neither.
I said: 'Little eagles,
where is my tombstone?'
'In my tail-feathers,' the sun said.
'In my throat,' said the lunar.
Through the branches of laurel,
I saw two doves, both naked.
And the one was the other,
and the two of them were neither.

The age demanded that we sing
And cut away our tongue.

The age demanded that we flow
And hammered in the ****.

The age demanded that we dance
And jammed us into iron pants.

And in the end the age was handed
The sort of **** that it demanded.

the rain won't lift.

it moans a low,
lonesome sound,
gives no mercy.

a window opens.

"i'm a little lost lamb," she tells me.

and I look up and she smiles at me,
she always smiles,. "Maggie," I sigh.

"what are you doing out on a night like this?" she asks.

"i long to dream in black and white
of deserted city streets
to waltz down at night in a cold rain."

it's summer and Maggie's
hanging out the window,
streetlight in her eyes,
her long ***** blonde hair
getting wet from the rain
hangs down around her face.

the dreamer of all the good dreams.
i have to tell her, "Maggie, you're
so beautiful."

"come up. I'll tell your future."

I shrug my shoulders, "I know the future. you die."

"not with me." she laughs softly
like a summer breeze
and her smoky voice whispers,
"your getting soaked, come up
the fire escape."

"so you're the lost lamb," i laugh,
"then what am i? the beckoning scarlet knight,
the golden moth drawn to your fire?"

"there's no music, Jack, but you know
the song too well."

"who chooses who we are,
what we become?

"no pity for us lost lambs."


whether lost or found,
the way a bird knows the sky.
i always know that where ever
I drift
or whoever I might become

I'd can always
find my way back to Maggie's window.

And
I’ll never be beautiful for anyone,
Not even for you,
I will never hide my chickenpox,
Grind me to sand, and I'll shout to the wind,
Wash me! Wash me away!

I’ll never pretend that I am pretty for anyone,
Not even for you,
I’ll let my skin dry like the Atacama desert,
I’ll let the harsh mountain storm bite my face,
The eagles eat my flesh on the tower of silence, so
There is nothing left to dream about,
Not even bone dust for the rain,

I’ll fight like gladiators, not to be beautiful for anyone,
Not even for you,
I won’t let the clouds overshadow my scalp,
I’ll pull right now, one by one, every hair follicle,

What you ask me to be is not beauty, it is a butterfly
That flies and flies around a light bulb
Until it dies

A shadow that weaves white nights,
I will not invent myself to be pretty for anyone,
Not even for you,

If you wish to enter my blood,
You have to swim in the imperishable waters,