The UnbornIn the midst of nothingthere is a need of somethingin the loneliness of the nightthere is a hunger for being togetherin the bed of liesthere is a peace of mindin the world of dreamslife wants to livethe warmth of your bloodintertwines with the sighs of my heartthe illusion of your mindthrives in the life of my bloodmorning seems to be blessedwith the awakening of your eyesthe cries of an unborn soulfind solace in the existence of yours.
Selfish GesturesThe pain of my soulfeels the healing touch of yoursthe missing needs of minefind its answers in yoursthe fear of losing myselfdraws me close to yoursI wonder where the roads endsleaving me watching you fly on. . . .
Moments of truthYour heart beats like falling rainYour eyes wander in the skiesThe hollowness of your heart fills with desireThe odor of your body spreads fragrant in the airTime stops as you breatheThe joy of orgasm pours down on youI look with wonder in my eyesThe truth of nature unfolds its wings
AngelYou are a dream that awakens meYou make me feel like I am flying into lifeYou are a mystery of ripened natureExotic, mystical, beautifulLike the star-bathed nightThe warmth of your bloodIntoxicates me to the extent of madnessI wander in your eyesIn search of the me that I lost.
Two draped figuresAlthough they stand beside each other,they are separated by their skin, not fused.Shoulder to shoulder without touchingthey divert their eyesand drape themselves in sheetslike vacant houses,haunting apartments and summer homeswhere rooms have become barren desertsand the bleached walls retain no color.We have seen them in the rain weeping,averting their facesor silently crying for helpwith their backs turned away from their mates.Although they are invalids,do not take care of them.Do not salute them.Do not offer them a seat in your home.
The widow dreamSHE WAFTS THROUGH THE HALLWAYSat midnight, her bodyswollen beneath a thin robe.Each year widowhood grows inside her.Now the sheer number of yearsembraces her, she can barely rememberwhat remains on the other side of the window.In her mind her husband's face billows.The constant umbilical of cigarette smokefills her home, a smellhe will be able to follow back.Her husband's name has becomea mantra,and when she rolls it around her mouthshe dreamshis body is solid yet light as a wingunder the white blanket on their bed.This morningin a blue sun dressshe stands next to himat the end of a pier.They listen to the dull bump of fishing boatsagainst the pilings,see the bright spangle of mackerel scaleslining the bellies of the worn gray hulls.In the sun a diamond ringon her left hand shoots off sparks of fiery kisses.She will spend her days dozing and wakingdreaming herself back to him.