Yarn
I.
Spread out like a tangential curve,
perched on window balconies,
I would stare at each abraded line of the sun
The sky was my favorite thing, how if I lay
horizontally, departed from the forces of
gravity and the will of life, everything was united
A quiet murmur would rush across the diaphragm,
knots and levers humming slowly in joy
I was a djinn,
I didn’t belong to this planet
II.
In the hospital room, a pigeon perched
on the tooth of a transmission tower
the flammable pink flakes on its neck
glistening at an unbearable rate
Pigeons, I know them, they have been constant
companions, pecking in hostel rooms, getting pregnant
right before my eyes, then laying insidious creatures
that slowly transformed into a yarn of mauve skin
The sky here is a white ceiling,
a large, yellow light attempts to disembowel the mind
I stare into its infinite brightness
Nothing returns
III.
In my balcony, the leaves speak to each other
I can feel their electrical voices as my fingers
rush across their seamless lips
The sky is now spread across the vertical face of day,
coagulated and starched as if announcing its infinite
dominion over us, over all earth
In my balcony, a single sparrow,
the chirping so sweet it splits my skin
November
Black sheets of sound
whistle in the cartilage
The breeze has invaded
the closed buttons,
the rattling drawers,
phantom eels in embroidered attires
I walk into
the pure black mouth of a particle,
not a single light in the sky
I heave and all body wishes to escape
The trees have begun to dream again
Spooling in intimate corridors
a bridge of cold laughter
The trees have begun to dream again
In total blackness they stand
like cold metals shivering in lust
The transmission lines are squealing
I close my eyes,
my hands arched like bangles in ellipses
The transmission lines are squealing,
and in darkness I become whole and blind,
suddenly aware,
levitating in air,
my arms bound to the howling wind,
blood vowels in the sky
We lick each other
between white floss,
my body shuddering like a piece of torn cloth,
Then close into our sculped veins
Like blindness across white frays
