November.

It lives in the stillness of the dried,
fallen leaf 

in the vapor and legs 
of melancholic trees

the red hues of sunsets 

in the thin veil of bareness.

My hands bleed here

a hum of darker red

cold is the body of 
remembrance.

You – lovely, with no shape

hair of thorns

a ruby in the throat – 

crawl and dig inside

long after the dust 

has turned the walls

a heavy shade of black.

Darkness
the familiar ghost, 

the curious figure,
with its pallid face
and naked wisdom
carries me in sleep.

The stains that we keep
change the skins
to flowers devoid of color
crippled and veinless
turning our bodies stiff like trunks,

cornered, 
in the back of our throats.

These wounds are
rugged diamonds.

I find comfort
in the mysterious, 

in unspoken words.

My skin
grows in wilderness
hiding in things that yearn
to be touched.

In quiet and empty nights I am like small breaths sitting still in the air. Something pulls and I sink into this bed. Loosening fibers. This feeling aches, it lingers, the seeds sprout. I am no longer I -- the form detaches. Thoughts visit momentarily and take flight. Take me hostage, I will not fight. Dreams are not so bitter and so I dream of an unknown world where we can keep our timid hearts in some sample of skin, maybe when we pass. And then like most things that grow vertically, we will fall to our knees. A tree will take our place and speak of us now and again. Oh how I wish it could be now!

Once again --
the formidable feeling:


immersing myself in waves

Or dispersing slowly 
–
like a trail of stiff limbs

among the woods.