meditations on language

de filosofia no sé;
del amor tampoco o menos;
pero me pones pensar tu
si es posible mancar
lo que aún no haya tenido.

*

*

this morning the light comes
through glass as if it were

autumn, but there is no poem
in it. in english,

one can say only i miss you,
but that doesn’t cover

by half the september sun
he says i need.

in italian, mi manchi,
you are lacking to me;

a lesson in grapeskins
and empty palms.

in spanish the thing,
like autumn morning light,

gets nearer: me haces falta,
te echo de menos,

te extraño: you make me lack;
you make me less;

i miss you. like a third hand
to turn the door knob

when my arms are wrapped
around your waist.

across a floor where no one dances


she leans in like
laughter; their hands

link, twine. it’s not
yet but the cruel

cusp of april, and she
yearns

for fire-rimmed
decembers.

the way her legs
cross says she

must have stories no-
one knows.

his eyes blaze
like sun-

lit secrets & i wonder
if he’s heard ’em, if

she loves him
that bad.

lust poem no.2

she leaves
panties under the
pillow, no

notches on the bed-
post, no clawmarks
across the back

of his-
tory; her story (just)
another scar between the lips

of now & never, her
perfume leftover
in the bathroom

mirror, her shape
imprinted in cotton-
sheeted (im)possibilities.