[1] On this unusually warm fall evening when I graze my plam slightly against the large eyes of dozing sunflowers, I know this is how you too fall asleep.

[2] When you lay again in that meadow, Darling, to watch two lover clouds chase each other through blue rooms I will be that fall maple, at a distance, scarlet, and trembling with desire.

[3] Days creak on by, turning on their rusty hinges. I hear them when on cold mornings as I draw water from the well, and find sometimes the sun, sometimes the moon glazing the bucket. O when, when will it be your face?

[4] When winter comes and snows bank against the porch, the front door will you leave the key to the coziest room of your heart, for me, hidden under a snowflake?

My Poems

As rain on the window leaves echoes in the ear's curvature, sometimes rememberance of past lives rises in the clear water of my laughter, like a stain of rust that can't be washed from a work shirt, or like a thread of black filings moving under water like a fish's tail.

Suffering remains then, I suppose, this way sunk in love, even after love. So patience then, when from your mouth I seek the consolation to turn it again into beauty like this rain on the window.

My Poems