There is a sleazy element in the air
which tells an old tree to molt
the foliage of its thoughts
as they blend with your thoughts
and the tree creeper’s before the final blow.
The lighter the easier one falls or escapes.
It tells me too to like it or lump it;
but I protest or maybe I am starting
to doubt the sureness of the road sign
or if my picture of you is accurate.
Tell me if I am wrong to suppose
the wind will not blow for now.
In a dark corner of the highway where the wings
of change shift toward the way-worn traveler,
and the moon is a dime a dozen on the tableau
of rushing cars, careening wheels, and the car bra–
a screen of shadows ahead of the gray leaves
of the wind which tells the tree creeper it is wrong–
tell me instead of a happy life
the eager wings of the highway
will put behind your weary shades.
June 19, 2005
To a Mother Waiting
Under a moonlit sky the calmness you long
Is slowly breathing in your heart a cool desert
Is longed by the warm wind is blown by time.
A long still surviving road ahead
And the road a high grade of shadows is gray
And the night above a quiet landscape.
It is how the moon can see you now.
Tomorrow the sun will long for you
The longing that you were the long deep
Breathing that you were or nothing about the glare
Of the moonlight could ever make you see
The soundness of waiting
Upon the road the sun
Will singe on the wide earth.
Virgilio Aquino Rivas
September 12, 2005
A Night Along the Bushes
Pure and divine one
Thing gets in the way
Of the other the virgin
She has become magic
Is love has become of it
–though it’s pure still.
O so the devil says.
Nothing is not in danger
Of ruinations of forked
Tongue. Say it now.
Yes I do. You did fine.
No, it’s never meant.
Nothing further said.
We shent each other
Deeply into the night
Magic without sin
May 12, 2005