Friday, July 22, 2016


El Convento Hotel in Old San Juan, Puerto Rico


I am an amorphous seed
and words are my lair.
My eyes grow in disarray
to the rhythm of elderly sounds
surrounding me.
I was born without a truce.
Empty of gods, I wait for night
to turn into dust, but I can’t leave your eyes.
Silent and extinct, I dwell in your grooves,
and review my confinement within your borders.
Outside of you I am transparent,
lightweight, tiny. In your autumn skin—
dry moon— I fall apart between your legs.
You breed my throat from point to point.
I sprout from you.

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