Saturday, June 28, 2008

On your bed linen domain
still soft in lavender scent
damp cloth, hence
picked up before ripe
I tried in vain to enter
Right behind our books there's mold
and the faint scent of words
in our dead tongues

Our hallway so straight and narrow
(just like all others)
as someone else's nights
(so much like ours)

Dreaming of sunny winters
leaving wide open doors
waiting for years to come

It all seemed true to us.

Thursday, June 26, 2008

You rose
John the baptist
from your own
pool of bowels.
Your spite for consonants
is my love of vowels
of the habits i left
could not keep my arms
tucked in the pocket of my vest

of the night so tall
waking up in barns
thought of God in parts

of the troubled keymaker
only the lampshade left
body parts kept