Little piece of me
is terraform concavity
with a surface tension stronger than water
so when you kick, it heaves and stretches
down a desolate well of the frontal lobe
lobbed into the flat crash
on cobblestone bottom. 
Me smaller than me,
gifted on a sunny day in the floorboards
of a dingy swollen between oceanic waves--
small cavity that yearns to be extracted
but onward pains the greater body--
horsepowered memory
whose psychiatric cure of earthquakes and buildings
turns mechanical,
tumbles in the lobe, its momentum
outrunning the gigantic self and tearing
into little pieces of me.

Overcast snowlight
                               and a dirty winter angel
pad your stargazer path tonight.
Does anybody but you remember
the madly tilting warp that covers us
with infinite and tender indifference?
Are we so warped
by our billion electric stars crowded in the retina
no galaxy between
that space unfolded finally
neither outside us
nor in?

                   

The ocean clock that strips you bare
never the judgment
                                    asking forth,
through sloppy friendship
or accurate
                                     thanks
furrows and crests the skin
                                     the same.
    

                        "para quién brillan
                              esas devoradas
                                   constelaciones
                                      del silencio
                                          maravillosos?"

--Miguel Labordeta

when I walk through the living
room columns of wavering light
bring memory
and purity
you were so fond of
sea colors
then the dream goes giddy
at your bedroom
so you want to be
deeper than reef
or submarine trench
but all around life gets
so shallow
a constant tide
and you rise to breathe the surface
where there is no more
no mores
yet dead will gesture
when you pass over
the watery shroud of my absence--
a cadaverous
animation

Errata is
                                            thinking
        on top of splinters.
                           Coffee grounds
                     missed alarms
                                   cat carcasses
   a rhythm of frozen
                                             blacktop
are the nothing you grasp the wheel in your hand.

With a sad thunder in my pocket,
I walk under those bio-
graphical balloons
up in the blue
and press on to disappear
into tall paths
where roses place their
dark deliriums.

A labrador lunger,
adamant with me by a leash,
plows into the snowy fallout of an ice storm.
Quelled in spirit, green hope whited out,
I let the force that through the barren ice
pushes, pull me too.
I have but an ash desire,
and know that it's the trees and dirt,
cased in ice,
that have ceased to listen,
not I.