There is something spiritual
In your stares, in your hugs
In the close space
between our tounges.
for e. hernandez
there is much to believe in what you have
Insomuch as we have the winds on our face tonight
The ocean commends us not
Perhaps to love is to burn in hell without remorse
Since, in the days that I did, I had no recourse
there is no poetry to write
even as with one night
the dance that was shared
rocked the room that was bare
it is not often that clouds become spotless
and if it were spring in Tuscany, I would not
for the world, miss such a pricless surprise
not even if you're in bed and your voice remain sultry
I write, as if for the first time I learned to write.
There is heaviness
Should I wait longer than necessary?
What is that part of me that fears you?
You could have grown
Towering skyscrapers by your foothills