The sea and fruitcake.

On the notion of heaven and other obscurities



Puddle to sea, men to birds to angels . . .
when she cooked rice, never enough water.
All she found were white asterisks popping in the air.
Can she belong to what she is kissing?
She'll take a beggar's dime. She'll take his stagger.
with his full name--marble-mouthed vowels,
Sunday mornings, the corridor . . .




On the notion of being a visionary


The scent of apples . . . It's how they teach me to be free
of salt mounds. I sought benediction
to greet me. Hide me in a room with no windows,
pants, yellowing undershirts and frilly pink
into the caustic light of a hospital.
The garbage, their mouths feeding on the soft tissues of decaying mangoes.
When my father was thirsty, he hurt my hand.