craneo de un caballoSoon it was clear that the moonwas a horse's skull,and the air, a dark apple.The gearshift shudder ofa heavy-laden truck fades,all the while, thesustained drone of bees;past their prime and sluggish,their wings cannot be stilled.A dull glint behind the eyesof a yoked pair of oxen,standing at a crossroadbetween myself and the fieldsthat bake in the Augustof a Spanish sun,waiting for thehammer and anvil to sing,for the echoing refrainof rifle shots beyonda stand of distant treesshimmering from spent cartridgesin the waning afternoonof your exquisitely curved spine.
clair de luneIn the bitter cold of its white light aswinter approaches, the contemplation of themoon that clouds your face brings a melancholy,uncertain as it is embraceablein the arms of the vision it extends.And when it's over, lying back quietly listeningto your favorite rendition of Clair de lune,the moon will return, and you'll draw closethe warmth of me, and for a whileyou won't feel so alone. And neither will I.
little stirrings XX: momentsYour chaste sun-tipped fingers,the blinding of your eyes-how is it I never knew you before?The moon-flecked range of your soundfrom deep within cavesreverberates the ribs of shipwrecks.I tread the curves of nightthat wash ashore each hour,the moments like seaweed in the shallows.
First VoiceThe harvest of your voicesustains meeven as it ascends in its keeningleaving a bloodied imprinton a lunar eclipseseen through finger bones reachingvoid of leaves in the throes of winter,their seamless secrecyin the bleached scree of ashdrifting into this quarry of anameless shieling,where you are the first voicefrom the other world,the formless breath of wind lookingfor a new husk in which to be contained.
The Other SideThe passing ages raise mountain rangesto lofty heights beyond memorymaking greater the distance betweenriver and lake and honored pastures.And every year, the geese fly into thedeep blue morning of a dying autumn.Hunters in the bulrush are blinded bythe airless sun hearing them pass overheadwhere the seasons await the spirit fluteof their calls that knife a brilliant sky,following the invisible pull of fateapproaching cliffs split fine as hair ofmountain goats who leap thenarrowing gap that grinds closer,siphoning winds of the ancient instinctswith irresistible force,or so the abandoned totems oftalking trees have always shown,as tribal shamans teach that it is thenoble way of their kind; a thousand mile tripin an unrelenting, unchanging migrationwhere only the bravest will find their waythrough the eye of that mist-filled needleto arrive safely home on the other side.