Now

I don't breath, I sing.
even when I sigh it sounds 
like I accidentally hum
a couple of notes that
were sung to me last night
while I was sleeping.
It is as if the air is 
my blanket and I most of all
like to rest my head on the 
pillows that are my lungs, the
place where I hear my heart beat
in quadruple time:
I exist,  I exist.

Caught on tape


These are the shoes of a man that if you say
here are your shoes, says there are my shoes.

Thinks: my flowers, my flowers in the world.
He travels on socks back and forth in front of his house.

He's  the sweet man who talks to kids.
He imagines that his street is a nest against the world.

One morning when the world overflows, 
he opens his window, takes his shotgun
and shoots dead all the flowers and the neighbors too.

A crowd gathers. People talk, point.
Everything is being filmed by the media. The flowers,
the general feeling in the neighborhood.
Look, his shoes.

Finally free..

Finally free
from this frivolous summer
with its feint figures
and pipe dreams, glistening
in false light
of empty expectations,
I heave a sigh of relief
and welcome the coming season, 
cool like your hands on my face,
grey and gentle like your eyes
during those sparse moments 
that you let me in,
into your snowed in cave
where your voice befriends its echo
and your reflection rises silently
into the ice that doesn't want to melt.

Over.


She wonders what it would be like
to be alone again.

The man who's living with her is working
unsuspectingly in her garden. She removes 
his keys from the chain.

She wonders how she is going to break the news 
to her friends and family.
The table back in front of the window
the cupboard back in it's old color.

Does he have any clue at all? He plants
tulip bulbs. She smiles, like always.
She is already making up fights in her head
and erasing his name from the birthday calendar