What about a woman
without trappings, what about
walking along walks that
are no more, what about my
writing that is not published
anymore? What about a woman

without trappings whom I can take
along walks that are no more

like distant heartbreaks? What about

my writings that cannot express

themselves? What about

my women whom I do not meet
anymore? What about my woman

whose name I do not know

and whose distant lips haunt me

in my nearby heartbreaks?

adieu

We were the excesses into the gory
shameless nightfalls as teacups and
china and stutters share a similar face

across the years and the births of our
endless spasms, we were searching

crannies and darkness to hold each other
fast unto eternity to swell in your sweat

your women aroma, your heaving cups

overwhelmed at the sight of the darkening

areola flooding our vestiges, overflowing
the shores of your first virginity, yet you

have gone away and are no more to be
found among the cloisters of antipoetry

nothing more is to be lost, apparently

with your birding away from all those terraces
poolsides and stairs, passages and landings

that once ached like our bodies

our laughter and lost distances

Traditional

I like my women long: eyes and bodies
and I like my days short like dolls

that pillow against your bust

and I like my days cut short

by a sudden, bloody euphoria

I like my days dead, haughty and hungry

like so many hollow women, cut and dried
like virgin forests, like the disturbing rustle

of fall, like wasted memories

You never happen to miss me
anywhere, around your lips

while licking the froth

of quite empty eventides

alone in some winter woods

or crying and rising and falling

like we were the waves

once breaking against the endlessness

of passions, in the swell and flood

of our desires perched like birds
you never miss me when in love
or wistfully alone