we are absentees; we leave alone
under all the obscure undulations of the night.
we will be once more the imbeciles of truth,
happily, mutely naked.

i cannot decipher your heart in the darkness;
i fall to my knees under the rush of your fingers.
ascetic practices fall to your useless words,
a waterfall of words; two hands where the truth was.

loneliness is its own lantern when the eye respects its tears.
+++



your poems are imperfect, constantly drowning;
old as attrition and eternal submergence.

the sorrow of these mammocked notes
is a series of shy possibilities under
the hurry of words; something opaque.

the sluggish wit shirks the hand of
too many somebodies like me.

i inspire motionless wings,
imaginary extremities
aching to play the wind.