Long-necked, in the dry

constructive criticism always welcome

        For the most part,
you sit without blinking
under dappled shade
of disillusions.
I scream
Mayday
Mayday
Mayday
and I have stopped
at the ,M‘
I think you hear
the shriek of
jungle birds
and unknown fathers
who fucked us
to our premature deaths,
wiped off the sweat of
their wide sunburn foreheads
and stayed on our lips,
or never stayed,
instead.

For the most part,
a bird almost drowns in
the water and I save it
every time.
Its heart bursts out of fear,
in the dry.
I dare to bury it near your feet
and that‘s the closest I‘ve got
to baptising hope.

Before and past shame,

we understood

gods

meant to fall down life,

as steep as our first 

look up to

them.

But for the most part,
I am out of blame for
that mispelled exclamation
of your or mine nesting
under trees because we
are wounded.

We existed like ghosts,

full-blooded in other lives

and only in promises

to return,

abandoned and pierced by

brambles, grown by mistake

in another's garden.

Who knows,

perhaps we bled out

of contracting excuses

and self-destructive takes

on history.

 Instead, we tried to grow
roots unobserved
because we were born
naked of roads
and directions
and we had found our
face in the wind
trapped in a tree.

Under it we were

Long-necked,

short of tradition,

maychildren at best

for that thunder

and I think

we lasted a day,

self-sufficient and reckless

as children

who belong nowhere.

 

For the most part,

our lips are long dry,

never seen rain

courses of rivers,

and

my heart and yours

open,
Our skins undone,
stripped down,
rumpled,
My and your
revolutions
put out.

Then afternoons come,
unbounded,
impersonal,
shadowless
and you laugh out
of yourself under the shade.
I finish my sentences,
dig out my place
near your feet,
lay back,
look up,
breath in,
rooted in grounds
of unquestionable
blood lines.
My heart and yours
close,
enough of themselves.

We stay.