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

for fire-rimmed

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.