There’s always a bell that tolls around this time.
A priest in prayer, the cross of the son smells the organ.
Between guerrillas and priests, one finds the jungles
to be divine.
My own insecurity feels like wheat.
A parakeet the color of Caribbean green,
a thunderstorm the hue of your eyes.
It happens to feel like winter only at night,
when I think of you most and feeling what
it feels
like to think of someone like the breeze.
Like citrus smeared on my face and bare
feet against rocks. To feel the way horses
do,
proud and vain with the timidity
of children.
Never looking straight, never a cause
but a dialogue.
Freckles against skin, clouds against
the sun, wind against the bayou.
Old homes of pirates, harbors that
drink, cigarettes nestled into the old.
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