Monday, June 13, 2011


I have the impression—the product of ashes—
That I speak with the voice of God.
A consequence, too, of a lot of God-talk
When I was a kid—listening to my father,

For instance, pray in Spanish:
The tongue's mallet transformed into kisses.

God in Spanish is made of Ss—
The serpent in the tree, summoning us
To suffering. Awaited

The sequoia, the sea otter,
The succulent oyster. Cunnilingus.
Buenos Aires and Concepción.
Salt Lake City. Menlo Park.
A morning dove glimmered in late April dew.
I withdrew my hand and she flew.

To my left, the Monterey cypresses
Scatter the wind. The foghorn continues
It cloud-muffled blaring. I can no longer
Distinguish myself from the suffocating
Eucalyptus, the yellow-eyed starling,
The paused cow. In El Granada,
The Tree of Life, it turns out, is a weed.

Now to the pain of love
I add the shame of ending it.

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