Monday, June 22, 2015


you tell me how locomotives are powered
minutes before we hear the 2 a.m. train,
I have feared it for so long but not just now.

one cold orange night,
instead of sleep we choose to
go over old movies and viet congs.

you learn to look me in the eyes
and provide me with refuge in your embrace.
all things come to those who wait.

A heart from scratch

A language
made of
lost words.

You. I. Quiet.
While you were away,
I walked my little world

from pole to pole by myself,
hid my heart
where no one else

could find it,
my only weakness,

(from my Poesia Torta)