An Address Bleeds On The Door
Once more I've come to the door,
scored a photo, asked the mystery behind-
"What is it that keeps pulling me in?"
The numbers on the woodwork, hand-painted,
bleed a lot, and I wait
as if its wound would heal, the address would
instill a jiffy etched in the air like a capricious feather.
Knock on the skull; if I have ever lived here
as a resident, as the one behind,
that I had been unlocked into infinity.
My father, all gone, whispers
to my mother, all gone, that I have grown to be
nothing they imagine, but it matters no longer.
The Short Life of The Spring
In its kingdom of shadows sits the cat.
When the car will start and roll away
it will be a pauper.
This moment is sacred. This moment is rich
with all its quiet.
In the sugarcane juice spilled from the cup
of an old man runs the youth of the Spring,
its alysm and inbetweenness.