I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.

Write, for instance: "The night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance."

The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don't have her. To feel that I've lost her.

To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.

What does it matter that my love couldn't keep her.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.

That's all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without her.

As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me.

The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer.

I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.

Someone else's. She will be someone else's. As she once
belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and oblivion so long.

Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her.

Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for her.

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

I haven’t felt that way about a girl
Since two continents ago
She’ll give you some land
And then leave you alone
And then deep in her cavern
She’ll turn you to stone
But I know how to glow with that Perseus flow
With that Gambit charisma
That Montana snow
In a fungal brain jungle
That moment of truth
When I drop the Ebola
And show you my youth

Is submissive to none
But my mother’s blue sun
And the red star immortal’s
Conquistador gun
And the young who inhabit
A bad rabbit future
I teach them to lead
As a culture shock tutor
Maligning the tumor
Of global dominion
In any one mind
With my omniverse vision
Of cold wars at peace
Still evolving us to

The perspective of gods from the other side’s moon

I fear I am almost out of words
And soon the day will come when I,
Am forced to give my pencil rest,
And let the writer in me die

Too often I am overwhelmed,
With thoughts that I cannot manifest,
Into rhymes or stanzas so they,
Remain heavy upon my chest.

It hurts to hold a pencil in hand,
And wait for the lines to pour out,
But none ever do, and I can't help,
But wonder what caused this self-doubt.

I want to create a masterpiece,
Yet I lack the skills required,
And at one point I would have tried,
But now I'm weak and growing tired.

It's hard but I don't have the time,
Or can't find the inspiration,
To climb out of the rut I am in,
And overcome this exasperation.

Each year I grow and change around,
Slowly through the day and night,
But I never thought I could lose,
The part of me that's able to  write.