compass
a couple waits at the abandoned bus stop
the man stands with his hands in his pockets
looking towards the sunrise behind
the apartment building
the woman sits with her hands clasped
between her legs
watching the rare car and breeze pass by
the distance between them
is a curtain of the unsaid
his too comfortable conversations
with the occasional coworker
her with the young teacher
having been left to deal alone
with the children’s schooling
all the moments where “no”
kept them steady
gather dust in the cluttered rooms
of memory
the man’s left hand comes out of his pocket
opens to receive her right hand
and they walk true north
late october
for all the dreams short lived
for all the sighs brief and deep
i will build a castle
cars have their streets
people their houses
we moved to the wind
for all the nights i walked to nowhere
and ended at your side
for you, who waited arms crossed
i will build a castle
to moments we sent
like arrows to autumn stars
i will dig a grave
the rooms are empty in october
in what we once called us
No te vayais
While the sun in its daily pilgrimage reminds the mortal of mortality, she does subtraction, linear
differences in distance, age and burdensome inhibitions. The water’s song on the shore telling —
no, singing — another story, don’t leave, keep returning to the ocean’s salted lips of that first
kiss,
The horizon devouring every ray of light, turning sky to a dark curtain, the waves summoning
touch, making little flashes of desire in the mind, don’t leave. North of the equator, thirst
transforms exponentially to dream, our feet slowly moving on the sand, a small fortune of time.
