Epimythium I'm afraid of the day the American Post Office will vomit all my undelivered love letters

/ I will be gone by then / back home / I will be dictating to my amaenuesis at the corner of Green and Coller, next to the big high castle there is a small house with a porch in the summers she grows petunias and basil

New Beginning (to Fadila) I have assassinated the bandits of my dreams; they all wear empty raincoats now, wait at street corners for the bus, depart without an elegant twist of the head Nothing resembles Casablanca or other cinematic farewells I will fast for some time now, wait for the cocoons to grow Then in mid-winter, under the veil of the silkworm in yellow light in tilted sunshine in an abundance of memories I will reread all your letters and write you a poem

Invocation to Loraine Write a poem of spring, she requested with the charm of Jamaican queens who obey no rules of season, with the fragile awe of women who watch the world from the cliffs of their elongated fingers No human element, she scribbled, no insinuation of pagan fairies, no invocation to the fawns She bracketed the white brides scattered around chapels and airbrushed ethereal sheep on Kingston red hills Loraine of the fairies, I promise to embroider my backyard with white construction paper I will plant a hyacinth or two wipe the human dew adorn adore await

Silver bird Do not think that I have run out of words, that Love, my love, my silver bird reside only in crevices of invocations and excessive moans Now you will have to search for my words into the caves of my maternal language in my obese unsculpted vowels hanging from naked mediterranean trees like overripe papayas Now you will have to decipher my silences, the sealed wishes, the imaginary departures my body wrapped in sheets of thorny thyme, bemoaning, I want to have a summer dress like this, seamless flannel expenditure of skin.