I want to be your dancer,
moving across the asphalt
with my bare soul
touching and turning
black as the summer night,
moving to the slow rattle
of angel drums echoing
from Ocampo across the desert.

I don’t want to answer
soothing thoughts or think
as the clouds go
stumbling around a sky
that speaks to the lightning,
soothing the tired bones
burried in the sand
before encasing them in glass.

A sea rushing beneath the wind
that pulls toward shore;
soon it will be September.

Foretold by the stars that litter
the night and retold in winters dim light;

a saphire,
the door that opens
backwards like a mirror
trying not to lose anything.

A fastball curve
droping out of sight.

Nero would show me
the world beneath
the sea

if I could
swim, the morse code
a taping pen sends
to weary ears,

the patterns in ashes
swirling around
dying embers,

a camp fire reflected
in eyes dirty with tears,

the cult of truth
that runs your cheek
and pools on the nape
of your neck.

The hull, not wanting
what you’re given,
the blade that takes gives only
what you ask;

a satisfaction in finishing without
knowing what
history will
write,

as unconcerned
as the wind when considering
leaves.