Do not shine light
upon the mirror at night.

Do not peer
into its murky depths,
for you will rouse the Thing
that placidly watches
from the other side.

The Thing that peers
so curiously,
glinting,
taunting,
wishing you would wake it.

Do not look
when it waves.
Do not speak
when it taps.

Do not rouse the Thing.
Do not touch
the glass.

you wake each day with eyes like rain,
that torch the dry cinders in mine
like a chilled flame or
tender moonlit streams
in the quiet middle of the night

burn me through
flesh, then bone
as i stare at your promise, veiled in blue
pull the curtain shut
blink just once.
i will become ash at the mercy of you

the words fell softly upon her skin
whether good or bad
that’s a mercy
only a touch could bring

they floated gently,
a caress.

she is numb to the pain

warm
you are so
warm
in my memory
warm
warm
warm on me
warm on my skin
in my memory
your blood is
warm

You reek of smoke and heartbreak.

There is a forest fire raging in your gaze
that I cannot extinguish with mine.

It can be doused, perhaps—
or smothered
with more eyes and more eyes and more eyes—
but my water pail is filled with Patrón.
I cannot quell it alone.

The thirst in your wildfire eyes
is drying me to leather;
jerky for the vultures.

Maybe they
can quench it.

I am alcohol and lame steak.
You are smoke
and heartbreak.