Bio

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the ribs are the most beautiful part
of the skeleton, they make
you think of wings of a kind,
an accordion where life goes in- and out
you see them better
after starvation or in a mass grave,
they are the ripples in the sand
when the ocean has pulled back,
they are the most fragile branches
of the trees carried away in the beds
of open trucks.

Always

Sometimes I wake up
and say: see, we are warm
and undressed, our hands
are pets, scale
a shoulder, a breast,
hide in armpit nests,
in tender skin folds,
stenograph love and almost talk.

Sometimes, a hand's breath
away from happiness, I dream
in June's rainbow room. The sun
bids gold beetles run over
our hands, the afternoon lays
an ear at our breast, listens
to our heart talk
the music box of thought.

And always the night returns,
hands full of darkness. Sleepless,
I surrender to that which
I momentarily forgot, succumb
to that which I always expect:
a hand that becomes fist, a fist
that can come down, suddenly,
in the midst of existence.