cinquains written during a tropical storm

to live / now is to speak / the
language of the tree / toppled
along the expressway / at night

perhaps / to walk the streets / that
you have always walked / until tire
dust gets distilled in / your lungs

and turns / to ashes of / infinite
radiance / that connect you to
ancestors / twice dead 

their hands / oceans as gray / as
fallen yagrumos / except the
flowers in their eyes / still bloom

let your / words improvise /
stories, bodies, forms and /
habitable words the size of /marks on

pages / provisional / these
diacritics of / our deepest solitude
become / slow fire  

since we / are being born / a
thousand times a day / in the
hands of each being that / embraced

us from / its makeshift bed /
murmuring something like / the
wisdom of a planet as / it burns 

the carved / wood of the dream /
and its antipodes / this song of
fluorocarbons and / roosters 

nature’s / border regions / the
stone sternum of night / or the
blaze of the collective / neuron

currents / that come and go / the
light goes on and off / the
neighbors writhe while carrying / what looks   

to be / sediment of / civilizations
like / ours that survive in the
warble / of birds

ancient / dinosaurs nest / in digital
gardens / with no trace other than
the sea / turtle’s

smile as / reflected in / the
turbulent waters / signifying foam
or the drool / that drips

from my / universe to / yours,
ambient, amber / necklace of
archipelagos / broken 

after / the last downpour / the
prolepsis of song / with no
safeguards other than the / curtains

that still / cover the doors / that
lead to balconies / from which you
can see port cities / larger

than the / world, smaller than / the
dewdrops of your breath / where
all possible ships anchor / away