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.
little stirrings XII: voodoothe whites of eyesrolling too far-voodoo of her thighsdancing,the dark moon howling
carryFrom a drought-riddled streamshe carries water upon shouldersburnt black when her mother still lived,her bare feet widened from miles trod,and the weight of woven reed basketsthat quench the family working the fieldswhen her youth and daylight fades,and fire flares bright in the clay hearthuntil the next day--from a drought-riddled streamshe carries water upon shouldersburnt black when her mother still lived.
AphroditeFrom the very moment my eyes beheld thee,Full adorned, head to toe, with shells shimmeringWas when the sun and I first rose from the seaAnd yet, apparition of time glimmering,You stepped in the surf and came naked to me;I, who's darkly ephemeral murmuringWould by exposure thus mockingly decree,But it was you became my Aphrodite.
Epochghostly scatterings of blackbirds-hallucinations in their wake,like the low-lying fogbelow the cloudsjust before rain comesand plays blues in the streets,filling the gutterswhere uranium fish glow,while in blows the sweet scentof new grass and sage, secretedin the alleys of abandoned chaosthat cover bygone seasonsof attempt and loss-the baritone of wind throughthe nostrils of the old treewhere I stand under its limbsof sparse buds(perhaps the last year)to a chorus of knuckles crackingfrom the slow heavy drips on the hood of my Mackintosh;a yellow jacket flying amidstthe gray morningof an empty Sunday,waiting in the eye ofthe epoch of our springwith its audacious needto be born, even if by breechto the sound of racing footsteps,the scree of lightning,and the clank of forceps