I’d rather have old trees in autumn
Who bend with the wind from the North,
Knowing their blessings will fall dark
Ere the winter, while dignity’s verse
Spills from their lips in the night,
The chorus of decline.
And who knows what of the saplings in Spring,
Sucking of life from their mother,
Whose blood runs deep into time?
Whipping about, the air is their own
While it warms, remembering naught of
How cold it has been.
She lets go her interest, disengaged, curious, while
I oil my glove, an old one from Rawlings softened by
time, hand ready, and perfect. Its touch is darker,
more electric, a part of me now.
I love the game, power glides and explosions,
moments of pause, infinite transformation, and
always the talk to mark off the flow. Sometimes
it’s enough just touching the leather.
Before I’m done she stands, hand presses her
gabardine creases, goes to the kitchen, fixes a
drink. I lay down the glove. It sinks on itself
into my soul.
I am dreaming of snakes again, 25 years
since the last civil discourse with old Yellow-Eye.
Thought he had taken my offer to leave me alone,
knowing I’d kill him if ever he showed up again in my room,
my villa, on the border between Mexico and me,
with my girl, under the lagoon (breathing water),
chasing me & my little boy down the street,
breaking the doors of our home, emptying the bed
offering death as his gift. His jaw unhinges,
he’s an albino, inviting us in for a latté,
strong as the night, softened by cream.
Here are some more poems.