To speak of this would be to try and say
something of a cave, a letterless mouth.

The moon floats like a coin in black water.

The candle on the table is dead.

A mouth hangs forlorn like a
well. A year hangs forlorn like a well.

Still, a glint in the dark —

a fish’s tail. Silver whisper,
silver whisper. God is

closer to me than my jugular vein.

The hummingbird whirs.

Drinks syrup from a velvet plate.

Inevitable life stirs like a cracked
seed, ringing off the walls its fleshy song.

Every day I tried to say it —

My family, when I saw your faces in the good sun
I died once, then many times, again and again