It's nice to wake up next to you
A comfortable feeling
That I could get used to.

Rising whenever we please
Taking our time to get out of bed
A ***** feeling, it puts me at ease.

Just as I am waking
I know you're next to me
And a smile is immediately forming.

I really could get used to this
Sleeping next to you
And receiving a good morning kiss.

I want it to last
But you cant stay in bed forever
I am hoping tonight comes fast.

So I can get close to you again
Hold you in my arms
And maybe the night wont end.

I, buy the tickets
We, enter together

You, find the seats
Us, alone together

The previews start
I hold your hand

The hero finds his girl.
You hold me closer

The hero falls
My lips to yours

He, the hero, rises
She, the girl, squeezes my hand
I, smile
Happy in the dark

If only till the lights come on

Drown me in the intensity of your gaze
And my lungs fill with lust
As I sink into your warm embrace

You've become part of me; the better part
The blood in my veins
The air I breathe
A necessity

When you're not here, the weeks drag on like years
And the days I spend with you are over almost as quickly as they start
But they're still some of the best times I've had
You've won me over in no time at all

moonwhite skin explodes into
blueblack bruises on your thighs
(chainsent)
like the words of your mother as she
consoled crying you in your crib:

she will always
know

the daughters
were not are not will never be
careful
virgincolored and apathetic
albatrosses scream overhead as you
take her paperpale hand (too thin);
and when
your fingers lace
your bluebird heart flies to your knees
and your butterfly soul flutters to your
stomach:

you will always
know.
the hopekill of your
mirrorcracked reflection
you in fragments
of
you mirror youmirroryou
knucklebleed flows onto the parqueted
wooden floor
where the silver glass
glints at you like
her skin in the moonlight.

and so tomorrow
if you are
still a
live
if tomorrow
when the sun sets west
if tomorrow when you open the gates
there are no wives
for the husbands waiting in line
if tomorrow you send her
a telegram:
(i will still be in brooklyn this week stop
and i love you
stop)

she will never
know

and the thunder
will bellow overhead as the albatrosses land
on the sweet, drunkwet pavement

chainfall.

She told me it was endearing

The way I move my hands

Never mind that I was drunk

Again

Never mind that if hands could stutter

Mine were half loaded cannons

Threatening to hit anyone who got too close

So I showed her the sign for

“I love you”

And

“Beautiful”

And because it’s my favorite

“Dream”

With her back to my chest I told her a story with my hands and her body

She told me that she never realized hands could say so much

Forget that they feel like zippers sometimes

The way they clasp into love

Forget about the days

When fists were held in the air

You acted surprised when so many people looked like superman and solidarity

Forget that mine tremble with no sign of stopping

From the chemo

And the fear that anyone I love will someday leave me

When we hold hands you can feel it

And I’m always asked if I’m cold

I show her the sign for

“Butterfly”

And

“Stubborn”

And explain my second favorite sign is

“Believe”

Because you’re really telling people that you are married to your thoughts

I jokingly sign

“Marry”

And

“Heartache”

But I tell her it means that I am trying to keep my heart trapped in my body

Like it might try and escape

These hands

They will bake you a cake on your birthday

And they will rub your shoulders when you need to relax

They will squeeze you like they were trying to remember what you feel like

These hands

They can do so much

Fires are unbiased—
They burn what suits their mood.

I like to do my running
In the morning, before
The mosquitoes start their work.
During the dry season, you
Would think it unsafe—
Roads crowded by vulnerable
Yellow stalks of rice, long since
Harvested—but the trash
Is burning all the same.
By the time I’ve finished my run,
I am coughing, and the mosquitoes
Are dead before leaving the water.

At night, if you are lost
And alone, the fires—
Four feet high and stretching for
The lower tips of eucalyptus—
Will light the road for you.
Do not walk near them.

Near the school
Between dying trunks of banana
Trees, three men in jeans stoke a fire—
Reduced to shades
Of their former selves, the long, burned
Banana leaves lay withered
At the white center of the fire.
Much to their amusement,
A few students have fashioned
Swords of the live banana leaves
Not yet touched by the flame
And are fighting to the death.

Not often, but certain days, (particularly
The hot ones) I
Ask myself—
What am I doing here?

We drink whiskey from the bottle
On a night off and
Stand by the river.
In the overgrowth on the other side
Far-off fires twinkle—
A reminder—things burn
Over there, too.