Like the forehead creases etched by a question;
Like the scent drawn by a naked stare;
Like the wind of a passing afterthought.
|from Drawing a Blank|
We bother punctuating days with familiar numbers;
But not with the drumming anticipation coiled in folded knuckles;
Not with the dull light illuminating an upturned page;
Not with the warm balm of a waiting, impatient cup.
|from Minhas Inquietudes|
There is an ocean sitting on the fringes of moods.
Memories tuck continents under the folds of their skirts.
There are solitudes straining
with the levity of locked fingers under the chin.