End of Line

I see the light
from firecrackers dim,
as if poured into hidden spaces.

The sky is a blank wall.
Not one star blinks
or glows,

Like a poem whose thoughts
are unexpressed, halted
past the end of line.

I hear the horns fading,
isolating the echo
of a breath.

The air does not waver
like you do,
words stalling in their place.

In the powder-filled air,
my words were clobbered
by the mist.

Fill of You

It's never been clear to me
how close we could have been,
no matter how many times I rise up
at dawn to engage you in the light.

I walk just close by
everywhere you try to reach me,
pushing little rocks out of the way,
and teasing me with your splash.

We never had any conversations,
just quiet promenades until the sun
was golden in your skin, in my eyes
until they hurt with golden tears-

That's when I knew
I had my fill of you.

Threads

If life were measured like a thread, who will cut off
the fly from a spider's fiber, dead and swinging like a pendulum?

How many threads can bury a spider with legs dismembered
by soldier ants crawling over his upside-down body?

Stirring the mud, the rain digs on the earth a shallow grave.

My Diary

is cycles of fragments,
reflected like mirrors
of clouds, water over water
pushing forward towards water,
lost in a crowd of aggregation,
thousand details and choices
to look for. No wonder,
the breeze keeps pushing away
the present picture,
like clouds that never settle
in one place. They group and re-group
like false memory whose pieces
are from different puzzles.
In the end, they get recorded
like Egyptian history.

My Holiday Plans

Be like a timber, fallen on my earth,
and wet by the early mist

Or be like the vine, spreading out and creeping
across my length.

I could be the water seeping
into the base of your feet, rising up to your knees.

I could be the sun, peeking at you
from the clouds

Or the rain, pouring down on you,
or the shirt, wet and clinging tight on your body

Or the soil, dried on your skin
if you would only let me.