Don’t think I’ve ever cared for much
Except for yes – – the edge of yes
What is up there in the trees

A concept practically valuable, a sitwell
Speak of me fullstrength, perilously

If you must, rest, repeat, vertically
Till we somersault before God
Within a gold awakened verb

Fault me, thrust me, Deity begins
Genuinely myth hardening
My faith, my depression

Irrelevant, when my hands shake
An elixir much greater than vicodin
This is poetry, believe me

When I tell you that I too
Struggle to be, a grammar bird
Merely pointing with wit


               Existes en lo nocturno
En las partes más estrechas de mi frente

        No es fácil olvidar una nostalgia
   Un periódico con letras sin razón

      Me equivoque, fue más lento el amor
      Qué el deseo de redactar una pasión

Si buscas detalles, deletreame como si fueras Un alfabeto orgulloso, un metáfora de Neruda

             Sin zapatos y sin cordón

Four Months

The folds in your hands smelled like a pile of coins

Father, my elegy is you, it renders a gist of sense

A gist I can’t resist

Father, I am trying to feel whole without remorse

Like a nurse, nodding, smiling, noting symptoms

Patronizing the memory of my very own youth

You did always call me a rouge, a rouge who sat on your lap

Needling gently with claws – such truths really did matter to you

I am the hardest of all to love AND with that I must confess

The day you died, something touched me

A silted innocence – I regressed to the age of three


May 3, 1949 ~ April 28, 2014