№ 37. Plenitude

We miss the unessentials too often:
Like the forehead creases etched by a question;
Like the scent drawn by a naked stare;
Like the light 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 sleeves.
There are solitudes straining
with the levity of locked fingers under the chin.