escritos quando eu morava em NYC:
they move into each other, pouring
from the separateness of their lives
into this brief burning, the way fire
melts all things together, leaves
nothing. the sea at the heels of
the city drums against silence,
the white line of the coast in
in the early evening, heat gone
from her thighs, she finds him
lost from her, moving off, the
distant streak of a dinghy
vanishing into salt fog. he
hears something stirring
in his past, something
that will make him need her
again. again, the long inching
toward their meeting.
a wisp of time.
the pale of the moon.
some other route out of or into the
the hard hills of the sierra
nose up into blue and gray, bearing tracks
no one could count. the landscape swallows
time: here, women carry the earth, rub cloth
on stone, let the sweet smoke of corn out into
the air. there are clothes hung out, pencas,
adobe. here a girl-child grows, knowing
the brown paths into the mountain, one color
repeated in water and land. here, her breasts
ripen, as the sky gathers its rain clouds for
the season to come.