poetry, Page 2

My hand dips in the Autumn stream—

My hand dips in the Autumn stream— cold calor— viscosity of whispers— scintillating macules over a thin slide of smooth stones

At Giardino Rossi before I sit to rest, a pair of little boots trip on cobble stones before me.

On the patient’s bed, brown bones beneath the gown say

Beneath the columns a young woman sits to smoke into my bronchi Colonne di San Lorenzo European Respiratory Society: “Non-smokers are at …

To read and sit still— until salt air weighs skin and

After we pronounce, I rush to sit and write the death note–

My thumbs are giants– fat and dumb, when pressed against

A cat— wakes me up– sitting in a dark alley—

white buds burst from trees the blooming of broken lungs

Tuyo’s skin and bones slick a bed of steaming rice— mindfulness of home