Small, busy flames play through the fresh-laid coals,
And their faint cracklings o'er our silence creep
Like whispers of the household gods that keep
A gentle empire o'er fraternal souls.
And while for rhymes I search around the poles,
Your eyes are fixed, as in poetic sleep,
Upon the lore so voluble and deep,
That aye at fall of night our care condoles.
This is your birthday, Tom, and I rejoice
That thus it passes smoothly, quietly:
Many such eves of gently whispering noise
May we together pass, and calmly try
What are this world's true joys,—ere the great Voice
From its fair face shall bid our spirits fly.

sangkutsa— sana'y kartada nuwebe


      stove -- so much inner blue
            in this gruesomeness,
          still soft is the orifice, maiming
         the speech whirling in warm press;

     hand -- to just blindingly toss out
      in wording it so that then this is true:
       we once had each other in the
        simmer of feelings, leaving
         our shadows crazy-eyed in
     elegiac silence.

      rawness -- boiled to a broth:
        thawing largeness, tipping away in
           and of feeling.

    final stages --- half-done in waiting,
      half-undone in wanting. darkness
       condoles with the aperture of
        clouds twitching to rain tritely
   against the tiled floor. islands of
       wet footmarks make the traverse
           viciously slippery on my way
    to your side of breathing.

     all of it -- hand's gentle breeze,
      salt of lake-eyes, melee of tactical pressures sizing down spots gleamed
       and honeyed with ires. a hiss
  on landscaped neck where a peregrinating perfume sits, feverish with
       desire and nothing else,
    blood boiling, whistling through the pores are the saltine sweat
     poised, almost
                               for the mouth's readiness
          in consummation.

You live in my solitude
That frightens the world too much
I open my eyes
And close my conscience
I need to see solitude in other people
To rescue my darkness from life.
I believe in your eyes
Because something musical gets out from it.
I believe in your body
Because immortality keeps poetry alone in it.
I believe in your labyrinth
Because it leads to my sorrow.
I want to destroy your silence
And follow you in the fog
To meet bergman who actes in the hell
And tarkovsky who shouts by my name and yours.
My horizon gets dark from time to time
But you are in the gap
Between my soul and body.
I will leave you destroyed
On the gate of nebula
And will not get closer to the blind death.
I don't own existence
But I own nothingness.
Nothingness is a lot of mirrors
that marry in onself.
the non insasive poems run
from your right eye to the left
and it never founds home
except when I **** the distance
between your eyes and my eyes.
my solitude commits suicide
every time I see you.
destruction condoles my soul
and I found its roots in you.
I will enter the life
When I die
And will enter the death
When I kiss you.
I want to widen the death
To include our souls in the frightened letter.