Then to get down on hands and knees

and let the pleather of so many days

strip away like flint sparks

from hands that have known fire

or jetsam prayers unmade one

by one in the wavering umbra

off the edge of the dock.

So is the magic act begun,

with a wave of wand, a word

lifted from a dark place,

and then a revelation. 

First line from “Delicious. I Love You. Goodbye” by Major Jackson

Of the equinox moistening

in your sealed lips

or these coy crocus

fingers peeking from within

slits of swinging benches

tilted ever so subtle

toward the silent blue  

waves. Here, my mother’s

apron is maestro on its line.

I recount the late autumn afternoons

when we turned the corner

past the bus stop waving so long

to the tall boys and their goldmines

of kicked up gravel.  We too

had treasures at our feet: 

scooped up pinecones

were fine incense, 

curbstones were tightropes 

and your hand holding mine

was a comfort of balance

like the maple leaf’s

jeweled scarf of sunlight

at the first cloud unsewn.

“The universe (which others call the Library) is composed of an indefinite and perhaps infinite number of hexagonal galleries”

            -Jorge Luis Borges

Tell me J what do you see

among the bookshelves

how long have you wandered

through these passages

and their tessellations bound

within chalk walls of memory

or stood on the edge of a garden

worshipping the Ceibo tree

flowers dangling  over

the flourish of weeds

I follow

Your lantern

Your watering pot

Your stylus

Your fingers

                away from all this filth

What we make of

inkblots clouds lingering

over our heads mountain

peaks through atmospheric

layers of thoughts a penny

each heads for hills

tails for us merlin trailing

merlin a grandiose illusion

and the ink above

your heart in love said no

Echo of sign, engraved

on the enduring mural

of her frosted palm

broken and barbed.

Passing she brings

day and leaves yesterday

its snow fallen, anchored

truth, blood nestled in me.

Based on  ”Eco il segno; s’innerva” by Eugenio Montale

        “un suspiro, a través


        de las tierras y la mar”

                -Versos Sencillos, José Martí”

To trust flutter,

that quiet

sigh of wing,

suspiro,

to suspend itself

there, green tip

of fern leaf

or here, intersect

of wave and wind.

Carry on, carry

on across earth

and sea, la mar,

mariposa,

light, passing

a otra cosa.

snowdrops in cat eyes, harsh yellow

     crunch of salted soles,

          frostbitten, yearning

undressing in pale

     light, a glass shard softened

          in white cloth written

grey, muffle and shadow

     painted over grain

          lines bowed

with body, glacier

     half-submerged

          in memory, half

thawed, half dreaming in

     melted snow, wet drift

          wood borne seaward,

a rippling rallentando,

     pleasing the stars, frozen shimmer

          encased in snow globe galaxies. 

All this stolen from the sky

while Nyame’s silver eye

blinked in the fog.

Deep in thick jungle

eight black spindles

spin thin silk. 

Who will entangle

Python and Leopard

in web, outwit

wasps with figures

of speech and honeyed calabash

cups sipped by silver mouth.

Who will harvest fennel

stalk for flames on mountains,

burn words from  

firestorm and silkworm 

thread spun & re-spun

on wheel and loom

until Nyame’s golden eye

unfurls and cries anew.

A boy is left inside

a classroom. 

Twenty other boys

and girls scurry and screech, while

a woman hovers over the chaos. 

He tries to find

their energetic eyes,

a source of light breaking

through Venetians unveils

playthings—metallic

Transformers, Matchbox cars, things

made for 4-year-old boys.  Architects

in the corner of the two-tone carpet

assemble K’NEX.  Every piece fits exactly

as it should.  They stare cold,

he stares back, army crawls

toward them, grabs a red rod

from the overturned box,

watches the smooth piece rattle

his fingers and push between

white spokes. Body

tossing,  eyes on

him.  They know

it will never fit

Another classroom.  The boy,

now a man, sits at a kitchen table,

A boy facing him, eyes

focused on the stacking

cups in his hands.  The man watches

him perform the well-rehearsed routine:

stack and unstack, destroy and grow. 

Once or twice he hesitates,

fumbles a cup, but recovers

with grace.  The man smiles, content

being observer, watching

the magic unfold.