[there’s the angel of silence,
and the body of the one I love best]

John Fry

                  — after Neruda


when the one’s silver streaks.

(no te amo como si fueras)

chaplets for imaginary saints snap.

(not salt, not rose, not topaz)

less than a year, okay an hour [of light] away from.

(claveles que propagan el fuego)

cinnamon skin you lay me down beside.

(not in secret but between shadow & soul)

sterling doesn’t whisper, can’t, passes through.

(sin saber cómo, ni cuándo, ni de dónde)

tongue who trued me, someone’s speaking them.

(where eye is not, nor yew)

there’s an unseen blue behind every.

(tu mano sobre mi pecho es)

your clavicle a harp of, sweet & of sleep made.


                  — for Julio Barrientos

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