he asks
when will it open
what, i asked
your heart.

he says
i brought hammers but
i fear it might hurt you
i said
soft, love. soft hands.
soft touch is enough

he says
kiss me
you won't have
to open your legs
just your lips, nothing
else
no, touch me soft

he tears my heart
and licks the inside
i moan
because my tongue is
tied

he touches and touches but
i won't come
i won’t come but i still
moan to keep him
occupied

im afraid the wolves
might come
i tell him when it's all over
that night the moon was too loud

so you trust me?
he asks
like howling wolves
we lie, crying
and as the dusk came he
covered me in his arms

in the morning i woke
to see the bed empty
only stains of the last night
in the bedsheets

i was afraid the wolves
might come

Her steps were always slow;
Even in youth she swayed,
Walked with sultry composure
And seductive flow.

Like a heathen goddess,
She tempers movement with grace.
It was not done out of vanity,
But pleasure in the flowing stream of steps
That mark her pace.

The relaxed fulcrum of her hip
Tilts with undulations in the turf;
Her feet tread lightly with a claim
On the summer fields,
On the bending trees
Where beauty still abounds..

She savors the trailing of her skirt
Through unseen paths in drooping grass.
Until the evening mist accrues
From out the forest paths
Caressing her as she yields,
Until she and it are almost one.
Like Whistler’s “breath on a pane of glass”,
She bargains with nature,
Waning to become an aesthetic phantom.

She stops at a window and watches
With a sad smile, the warm light on life,
The laughter, talk and dancing grace
Of her children, who don’t yet know
The bittersweet taste of withered garlands.
Yet she accepts and passes into the dusk.

Now she executes a careful,
Battement fondu as her hands dip
To reach the soaking pods
Of next year’s summer flowers.
Every move must be planned,
To manage every hour.
For they are as precious now,
As her own days,
Fading into glory and reborn,
Into spring and youth’s careless riot.

At dusk,
All our labors are reduced to nothingness,
Ground to dust,
All in vain.
But by dawn,
We shall pick ourselves up,
Our heavy bones and weary souls,
Just to try again.

seated
on a bright yellow stone slab bench
beside a cobblestone path
diving steeply into dark forest

my page illuminated
by the last trace of filtered sunlight
this overcast Friday eve

mountains peeking through low clouds
marking dark silhouettes
against a blue-gray southeast sky
hints of pink paint the western clouds
softly bidding us goodnight

scattered shouts
and musical notes
waft up from the town's bars below
dancing through the trees
flowing to the rhythmic folklore
of the local vallenato band

night closes in
darker each minute
the thin yellow crescent overhead
seizes its moment
shining brighter and louder
through the wispy clouds

as mountains emerge at last from fog
they dissolve just as quickly
into the black sky

all vibrant hues melt away
the bench transforms
dark yellow becomes gray
beneath my weight

one last vestige of color lingers on
the dull red burning on the horizon
sparks an inner fire of gratitude
for every second of light
every second of life

my page descends into darkness
written thoughts plunge back
into the unexpressed depths of the mind

Night falls.

Walking the streets from
midnight to early morning,
is not unlike walking through
a graveyard at dusk.
You can see the ghosts of peoples day.
You can hear the echo of their voices.
You can feel their presence.
While stalking the streets
you pass under the fog
clouding around hazy street lamps,
look into dark windows,
and you’re as good as alone.
Breath leaves your mouth,
swimming around you like
the smoke of a cigarette.
The faintest glimmer of life
echos the streets you wander.
The silence screams louder
than your own thoughts.
You wonder what it would be like to die,
would you stay a ghost on these streets?

You shine, just a crescent

And it pulls at my tide.

You wax and you wane

Every move leaves me hypnotized.

Smile and eyes glow quicksilver

Yank at the strings

Set my heart to overflow.

Gods in stars shine down

Smirking at the thought

Of things they already know.

You descend into shadow

Oh, love, don't be so shy!

I adore you so deeply

I swear

My heart breaks

When dusk says goodbye.

My feet were splintered and cracked from crawling in the broken trees,
but still I stood and stared through the wooden beams
to see far below me, to gaze into the eyes of the howling beasts.

I hoped desperately that they not see me,
but their heads flashed upwards and their tongues pulled me from my perch.
I could hear every word now, trapped underneath their fumbling feet.
They moved slowly over me, working meticulously.

I waited for the evening, when the dying rays of the sun sank into the tile from the doorway,
and when they would vanish melt into the darkness of his shadow.
I wait and wait some days, but they never melt just right,
instead only turning the whole world into night.

His shadow doesn't arrive sometimes for days and nights,
sometimes, though, it takes months and once a year,
but every day I long to hear,
his rough and Southern drawl,
whether it be telling me that I am queer
or small.

Most days I do not care what it is he'll do or say,
I only care that he is there, and that he will make the monsters go away.