And this is desperation
it is muttering to a windowshade and dreaming
     "always" "always" always
it is looking without seeing
     when every side street and roadside looks like
          the devil's territory
it is what you sound like when you speak
     all your sentences backwards
it is listening to sad songs on airplanes
     and pretending like nothing has ever changed before
it is staring at varicose veins
     like vandals
          underwater
it is building shelves for every little thing
     so every bigger thing goes not astray
it is becoming a martyr
     for the morningdew chills
it is watching as skyscrapers blur

(2001)

inbetween the mirrors of reality,
my sanity slips beyond my reach,
and I fall -
tumble headlong into theories of death,
unexpected glimpses of mortality.
and I saw -
my existance as a spidersweb,
people clinging like morningdew.
And I know -
if not today then tomorrow
and tomorrow and tomorrow.
I will be omnipotent
I will travel in light
I will knw God
and I will revel in the knowledge of forever.

i oft wonder    when i stare at you
(& seeing how you live like sweet morningdew)
if perhaps, you are the work of athena–
or instead, pantheons altogether
          painstakingly threaded your body together.
          i touch your skin and i feel the weather.

did they toil over parenthetical curves
in your eyelashes, so? did they, in fact,
          under faintly ambered nightglo,
paint soothing hairline melodies into your soul?
          it was they!
          who carefully composed       your ballet!
     betwixt your brows and your lips
lies the aria of your kiss,
          and your murmur: the solemn swell of viols.

call me daft and sound your drums!
i think it had to be the ones who
          mastered the craft,    endeavoured to create,
who fired in kilns the earths to bake;
          who designed the bold mackerel,
          its iridescent scale, the peach, how
                    malt can turn into ale;
the celestial potter who sculpted the stars,
        and Jupiter
                 and Saturn
                                and Venus and Mars;
the ones who spun all into creation,
          and could undo infernal damnation;
who weaved you from threads cut by the fates
from the months and years we celebrate.
          from flowers sprouted from the dirt of eden
turned into watercolour, your colour, it deepens.
          as designed how grapes
          may blossom to wine,
the specks on your skin birthed from the divine.

i oft believe    when i stare at you
(& think of how you light me anew)
that i’m a curator given an exquisite delight -
trembling in awe of your beauty and light -
          to treasure and love and care for and feather,
          i touch your skin and i feel the weather.
          i touch your skin and i feel the weather.