this hour of smoke and mist,
stay still, for all the stars
glittering here and the moon
sliding down your back
bare to horizon worlds

pressed to my *****
the vast sky glowing
in unnumbered mysteries

soaking in the fragrance
as dew settles by your hair
this surly hour
flowing over your throbbing
heart, soft as the breeze

streaming silent by the curtains
unfurled, the sailboat of our lives
on dreamy waters

let them cease, creations
of the faltering mind
dissolve, all the sensations,

cupped to an ancient warmth
lives lived of long whose lights
reach us now
here, I hold you, to the
rhythm of timelessness

T'is a silence that summons the Gods

past the swan lakes, skies
pondering deep in the stars

floating in the clouds, homes
of distant them dreams

past this temple that was ever closed
un-noticed as we walked past
the teals, hand in hand

when the horizon is lit in hundred
colours, come wading to me
past the milling crowds

our words echo endlessly
on the wind-swept streets
by the lamp-shades
and autumn leaves

in the old book that was never opened
the fragrance of a red rose
pressed dry to this page
that spoke the story of love

night of the evening suns

Die into me,

Every kiss is a prayer
As I whisper a prophesy
         To your body.

          The night will keep us
As we constellate our passion.

I die into you,

      I await you on the other side,
There open my soul
      And read the inscription:

   He died a thousand times,
Reborn inside her,
    The Sacrificial Lover.

I want to talk to you in whispers
and the language of the leaves
pouring down in winter:
you are silent, like the autumn sky
all the clouds stalled in their paths
for the noon-time nap by the river.

Will you not sit down by my side?
The world is hurrying away
like the floating lights on waters;
I will make for you a tiara of
forgotten flowers, and a garland
of evening songs, and say
many stories of larks and lamps;

It is dusk, now but not here:
center of my world, my refuge,
I'll plant a kiss on your *****,
give me those mist-wet feet
let me shelter them to my heart
this warmth will redeem me

Ethereal petals
blue
unfurling a presence

on the waveless
shoreless waters

bathed in golden light

a smile, a portal
to vaster worlds
unfolding
on the placid lake

a golden peace
unending dawn

hopeless, helpless, confusing, gloomy have faith dark muggy muggy
evening of hopes, oh what an error, how could I, this again and again
same old same old, hopeless, helpless, chimera, mirage, don't trust
lost, defeated, distant, too far the journey, endless, keep walking
featureless, destiny, fate, tired, unclear, ebbing evening light, faceless;
let go, less hope, less help, less clear, less light, less known, only less
not no hope, no help, not clear, no light, unknown, indecipherable;
endless, hopeless, confusing, tired, can't walk, where to go, how, how
light is within, destiny, fate, chimera, mirage, nevertheless, endless

How many times and on how many screens has JFK been assassinated? she asks a few minutes into the commute.

Someone has said that to me before, I say.

And I notice, now for the first time, even she is a rerun or a ghost
or an unfortunate reminder of the one who came before her,
from the artfully mismatched polish on her toenails to the way her wrists wrap around each other as she talks her quiet talk, her fingertips balancing her iPhone, which streams Jackie Then Kennedy scrambling toward the back of the Cadillac. Its the Zapruder footage in slow motion and somehow in HD, and she touches the thumbs up icon when the footage comes to a close.

Across from me sits a dead man. I'm sure of it—his death. He lounges in himself, his belly fat imperialistic in its expanse, moving beyond beltline and claiming a space all its own on the torn, blue cushioned seat. The dead man looks a bit like Marlon Brando, post-Tango in Paris, when the depression set in and with it the weight, but like Brando, there's still a cool magic in the deep lines of the dead man's forehead, something forlorn and knowing in the drag of his eyelids.

It's here that I remember I'm a writer. And moments like these, I'm supposed to render in belabored yet fragmented ways.

That's ego, she says, not looking up from her phone.

What's that? I say.

The way you pigeonhole me. Rerun, ghost, et cetera, she says. Maybe I've made love to a sad man like you before. Maybe you're a trigger for me. Maybe I know everyone you're going to be, everything you're going to say.  Like I was going to tell you these pants, these pants are lenin pants and I got them from Bali. And I didn't say it because I already knew your response.

Are they ethically made? we say smugly and simultaneously.

And the subway car does that screeching sound you hear in movies and the tunnels outside do that motion blur you see in movies and I try to kiss her but she says that uh-uh cowboy line you know from movies.

Brando had affairs, I say.

Kennedy had affairs, she says.

Have you ever had an affair?

It was exhausting, she says, the performance required. All the effort in your vocal affectations, those terrible 3 p.m. lunches, the pet names, your obligatory passion and one-liners, the secrecy for the sake of secrecy, the purchase and disposal of lingerie. If I could get the time back—

I'd spend it alone with a glass of red wine and a good book, we say.