Apocalypse

could we fit all of the living and the dying into a moment
in the middle of nowhere
and nail it down into
an
ever
deep
ever lost hole
in this earth
the dirt
the clay
and heated center
to burn it up
with a final
and all consuming
swell
like a belly ache
a painful
hiccup
from this mother earth
taking it
bearing
it
because it is her duty?

Punctuation

My moonlit skin belonged
in a page (ripped and abandoned) from history
a mistake
an abandoned life
with habits
and ceremonious ubiquity
and long reads
That light washed over me as another sense
(somewhat like air or water)
showing translucent
as ice
Sometimes I recognize that skin
as a glimpse
(hot and feverish)
in a reflection (blurred and smelling of age)
tilted at an unbelievable angle (sharp and skewed)
My words sometimes speak out of that former being
wrapped in that
moonlit skin
but
that voice is shaky (soft and cowardly) and can't remember
how to wrap
a comma
around
all
of its
unfinished
business.

Dinner

Hold up the night
in view
for the living memories
to
fall
down
on star dust
to
A temple
keeping all of those hours
safe
breathing
undulating
a movement that
grows
with intensity
urging
me to open it up
and feast
slowly
on
those
savory
bites
holding each on the tongue
to taste the minutes
one
by
one

Fluid

"The purpose of poetry is to remind us
how difficult it is to remain just one person,
for our house is open, there are no keys in the doors,
and invisible guests come in and out at will."

Czesław Miłosz