Issue#1: Oct. - Dec. 2002

Juan Asks God

Our daylight sees a stone skip
twice -a breath, then its body-
Before the eyelid,
the getting to the bottom of
trees cast by the thirst of surface for the sky.


You think, from your side of the morning "That is
her way of flipping one's fate-
by how often how open parantheses reflect
a warm-blooded name."
But you go on, some clothes on and lightless,
mistaking footfall


for arrival, time for a bit of earth,
when you could hear from there for myself,
light. Nakedness.
How beautiful it is in our mornings not to be
at the back of everything spent, a name,
the tail-end of a swish.


Speak to me instead: do you know more than I
how life sounds through,
where we are two sides that must listen to
whose eyes close first to end
a body's breathing.