According to the Wind

Flat on my face, lines

fall

to the ground

to be swept away, like

fresh cut hair.

Show me your eyes,

share this forest bed

speak to me

in lines and poems, here

in rags of sweet collapse,

where we could hear

the grass grow older,

along with our hair,

as I incline to reach

its silver edge.

in sleep, stormy eyes

pierce the sky.

Furious

green sea rises,

approaches

my back, as

the lightning reveals

my silhouette,

head bowed

towards wet shoes,

waiting

to be drowned.

Dawn creeps, naked

as a showgirl,

above the phosphorus lake.

Airplanes rise

leaving fingerprints

on last night’s sky.

His ice blue, watchful eyes

tempt the memory of clouds.

This day, and the one after,

will finish in blood

red salt

pools,

like the nymph’s photograph

in a darkroom.