Análogos

The lake I lack. The scenic lake! Or lacking, rather, the labor

of wind laboring a lake in June. All the tiny flecks,

the indentations. History is the surest

of human desires. The shore, the carved letters, children

carrying sticks, dragging their names with abandon through the dark

and darkening sand. Calligraphy, I’m drunk for it. I search for it

savagely wherever I go. I’m amoral. I’m a maniac. I’m

an open-air preacher on a horrible corner, a horrible

sermon docked in his jaw. The absolute noise

of his voice. Once, I fell enamored with the limbed

concierto of crabs locked in a cubic cage, more or less

the size of my ribcage. Laid along the monstrous

sea rocks, Atlantic wind and mist in broad blocks above. Who said

a cage is made of holes? Who said there’s another world, but

it’s here, in this one? I miss the drunken chatter

of your dreams when we’re away. Our drunken scratches

laid upon the rooms and shades. Our love is getting longer

all the time. Like the paired initials of lovers

knifed in the park bench—we’re becoming etched

in the scene. I’m so crazed. I’m prolific. I’m

a pacifist. I’m a tribalist, really. Lately I’ve been feeling

melancholic—a trodden, modern feeling. We rest

on a cliff in the trail-bend, a mile above the barren

meadow with a lake in its chest. Clouds clog

the meadow, like nouns clogging a larynx where love

and verbs once passed like summer. We’ll

keep going? One of us asks the other. Yes. It’s easy going

further. The hard part is getting down.

México

Cinema of a thousand staccato clouds.

Lyric rhetoric of the birds, like a thousand thrown spears in a Roman war.

The city, I fear, is breaking character again.

Tonight I’ll walk through México with a thousand eyes in my hands.