for Cesar Vallejo
When the day and the daylight
have dropped out,
when I have let it go by
there is a moment
looking for me in its hand,
finding me, every minute,
in worn down, brown leather shoes.
Does it know that I am going
deceived into forward thinking,
running foolish into night?
There is a heart buried
in Capitola—next to the foot shower,
in Prague—where a maimed woman,
with hair the color of lightning
in every kitchen I’ve ever danced in.
I know there is a person composed
of my rocking muscles, creaking
to whom I fuse
when I gallop, jagged
but it is not home.
I see inside the skin—her life
and the things that comprise it—spreads
like spilled ink
across breasts, knees, thighs—tight,
like suffocation. Blooming.
I know the road,
but my feet have escaped me.
I know the feeling of things
when they recede into distance.
How the blood flows, waving
tiny white flags of light
Fulmars, winging into soft tissue.
The moment so small
it is already disintegrating
into dust, but our bodies will remain
for a while yet.