even higher
among the oaks
there is nothing but oaks

we had climbed up the mountain
towards the colossal figure of the temple
now reduced to ruins

I am riding down Fifth Avenue on a bus. A woman touches my leg and speaks of forests. My need unfolds like a newborn’s limb, stiff and uncertain. She whispers close and I tremble as we reach my stop.

Yes these are mine

I carry them from shower to dreams

and sniff them in dark dawns

Last night
At Mother Tomas’,
We danced the

Wedding night
Graciela bled lightly—
But enough to stain his thighs—

Ah, to rise one morning
With the ability
To strum a guitar

Your logic frightens me, Mandela,
Your logic frightens me. Those years
Of dreams, of time accelerated in

Just as God is not my sorrow,
neither does this prow
above our gable where a love

Particular essence . . . taken pain . . .
The gift.
And the unwrapping.