Cooing the Man that is Singing

Cooing the Man that is Singing

He sings like the secret of stale rags.

Opens unexpected seed pods.

Grows eyelids to relieve our poverty.

I break the dream that drew me to his voice

and leave through a window to another jail

where I fast in labyrinths

stripped of leaves by music,

disfigured by foam.

I write so as not to lick the floor.

I compose homelands 
with oxidized tongues (landscapes 
with closed doors & mud ankles),

islands of guitars without strings.

He sings like skies feed on watches

to make our days believe our right ear

is a boy soaking his memory

in The River of Docile Waters.

He calls out my name,

my silences of squeaking doors,

my butterfly scars.