sunset

The word returned
like light on the sidewalk
under the thick soles
like the stubbly stucco
the smooth heft of aloe
under my finger tips
like incense blown
across my pores

and the trees rose
steady and licked
the sky gently,
and the sky burnt
down to embers
behind the rustling,
slowly

I walked
and carried the glow
on the back of my hand

Foreigner

Did you think you could touch me--
whose palm are you pressing?
Whose shoulders bent,
whose raw-boned fingers,
whose lined forearms?
Who thought you could hold me--
who do your eyes encircle,
whose broad cheekbones?
Whose heavy walk,
whose mouth twisting,
whose square chin?

I tell you this nose
is only the snubbed barrier between us.
That I laugh
like scrawls on paper,
snorting keystrokes--
that I could meet you
in the hollow under my earlobe
or in the corner of my eye--
that I stride my face in unknown country
and rub my neck with foreign hands.
I was nearly there
when my eyes narrowed--
that I was only ever held
by the circle of my sockets
embraced
in their arching bone.

12:32 (Swork II)

12:32

the blinds silhouette
and the ornaments hanging darkly
the cars slowly under
the tree fountaining, in the divider
the live flame and the sparks falling
against the curb, unconsumed
live ash on the still pavement
going down to dust
into dirt and disobedience
soil unsown
along the hardness,
the shallows gaping,
the patient defiance
of possibility,
warmly extended