Monday, May 11, 2009


There is little to be said
about the beginning of the summer,
or the opening of the mouth.

With little victories and failures
quiet kisses saying I am sorry for me.
Molecules begging for some forgiveness,
and all the blood in the veins
reaching out for some kind of contact,

The way clothes fit against the body.
The way memory sticks out,
like a belief in something,
worth forgetting.

This skin,
soft oil and skimpy scent of peach.
This body swallowed,
in no time at all.
Maybe all this lighting in our palms.

With you so close now.

The softness of open-eyed dreams
running against,
the thunderstorms of our lives.

Every so often I'd like to have my own funeral
just to see

who would show up.

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