you will not find silence
while they are away
the phone will not stop ringing
the gravel in the driveway
will crunch under tires
the gate will squeak
the bell will sound
the door will knock
and as you move about the house
you will talk with them
until they return

Turn it off she said - turn off that light that shines out of you like
you are more lighthouse than man. turn off that light that casts
no shadows and like a molten river in flood finds its way around
corners and under doors and into drawers and lockboxes. turn
off that light that like x-rays shows me dressed and naked as girl
and woman and crone to your eyes. shutter that light she said
that like a buoyant golden sea floats all my heavy secrets like
they are cork. must I darken all the window glass she asked and
sheet with lead my room, or move beyond your horizon, out of sight,
within your eclipse?

in this distant city
where the fierce sun
distils from everything
a rank and primitive perfume
that shifts with
the quarter of the wind,

i like to buy the mangos
the locals hawk
from the roadside
when i am reminiscing
about us.

i eat them slowly
at the table
on my balcony.

each fragile slice
feels hot as blood
as i hold them in my fingertips
and let the juices collect
in the palm of my hand,
as i dissolve their flesh
on my tongue.

the afternoon rains
conceal the city
for an hour.

how do we appear in sleep?

like a photograph
from the explicit collection
of an Amsterdam madam,

like a japanese woodblock print
of an arching geisha
tangling her porcelain limbs
with an eager courtier,

like pompeii’s dedicated lovers
fatally delayed
by their own relentless heat,

like we will resist
any interruption
of this carnal fascination
that consumes us.