Can we speak of these certain vacant spaces in my abandoned bedroom where the moon dwells and shuttered creatures search their teeth for a bloom of flavor and sun.
I'm surrounded by prosaic twilights--tenantless places-- where plaster perfumed by dormant fire gapes with cavities and empty mouths that seek him with their tongues.
Where darkness crawls on poppy seeds on moths and reeds and shoes to reach me in my consternation now that his name has fled my lungs.
Today I sewed his note to my breast pocket but it grew crescent roots like fingernails and murmured that we were too young.
Homage to my dear Neruda and Number Six the sun to my moon.