I speak the summer, near the dusk
of the Atlantic, from the cove...

The memory and shadow
of his girl, diving to her grave...

I wrote a poem, and it was a long poem
about hummingbirds and lilypads...

I caught my poetry late at night
admiring himself in the bathroom mirror...

She flicks a fanned image of Catalan art
under the parasol with a twitching...

I went to the coast where the sea mist
rolled over the dunes and made it so...

I wanted to see the you the way
you see yourself in the mornings, without...

December must be tired
of being called upon, of being...

Ink seeps down, again,
Scratches, reflections, soap dust...

If I could fly to the star-freckled sky
on a bitter winter's night, I'd graze the moon...

You weren't there but I saw you,
on the steps of the station...

You, coquette and lovely, once managed
to encompass the allure of your sex...