the hours

fancy teeth. fancy smile
let me describe them

the best of me in the dark
the best of you. the best of the best of everything
in this particular order

enthusiasm
your body stores the past years
the hours of the sun
of many nights
the hours of children. of mirrors
nothing for God

you'll return here one day
the good music gone with its echo

shrieking sirens digging deep tunnels
in your downsized body

you would most certainly want to forget.
you would want to dance
then dance!
you resemble a cut lily with so little water
in a hand made vase.
a person loses control while dancing.
a string less dragon kite
up in the sky.
a drone gone missing behind the clouds

that silky yellow dress
bearly touching your knees
a folding fan

granite weaving

"if it rains tonight, will a raindrop be my cell?" (tom sleigh)

no one can do this
fire and ice coming out of her mouth.
in her pursuit to justify her own voice
she separates the sounds from the lyrics

the second half of her life would be so much different
easily mesmerized
bending her own rules
living while still alive

eyes so sharp
webbed with desire and lust

strange lips
craving to take the shape of the last meal
closed tight at night
shining granite weaving
following a kiss or a monstrous fight

Granite Weaving, 1988, by Jesus Morales