William Williams

with the rest

of the gases

by Roberto Lavidez

what have I

to say to you

that you may

whisper it

in the night

love itself

a flower

with roots

in a parched

ground

with evening

love wakens

though its

shadows which

are alive

by reason

I suppose

it’s my mind

the fear of

infection

I’d rather

a million times

have been

got pregnant

sorrow is my

own yard

where the new

grass flames

as it has

flamed

often before

but not with

the cold fire

that closes

round me

this year

I have had

my dream

like others

and it has

come to

nothing

so that I

remain now

carelessly with

feet planted

on the

ground

the farmer

in deep

thought

is pacing

through

the rain

among his

blank fields

with hands

in pockets

in his head

the whole

field is a

white desire

empty

a single stem

a cluster

flower by

flower

the trees

being trees

thrash and

scream

guffaw

and curse

wholly

abandoned

damning

the race

of men

the harried

earth

is swept

the trees

the tulip’s

bright tips

sidle and

toss

loose your

love

to flow

blow!

nude bodies

like peeled

logs

sometimes

give off

a sweetest

odor

man and

woman

under

the trees

leaves

rising

instead of

falling

the sun

coming

and going

toward the

middle parts

of the sky

vibrant

bowing limbs

pull downward

sucking in

the sky

that bulges

from behind

straightway

a delicate

fire

runs in

my limbs

my eyes

are blinded

and my ears

thunder

the rumpled

river

takes its

course

lashed by

rain

when I

came to

myself and

realized

what had

happened

all I could do

was to curse

to make a man

aware of

nothing that

he knows

not loneliness

itself

not a ghost

but would be

embraced

emptiness

despair

of death

the barber

the barber

talked

to me

cutting

my life

with sleep

to trim

my hair

the crowd

is cheering

the crowd

is laughing

in detail

permanently

seriously

without

thought

it is difficult

to get

the news

from poems

yet men

die miserably

every day

for lack of

what is

found there

there are no

perfect waves

your writings

are a sea

full of

misspellings

and faulty

sentences

level

troubled

to hell

with you

and your

poetry

you will rot

and be blown

through the

next solar

system

with the rest

of the gases

the fragility

of the flower

unbruised

penetrates

space in

passing with

my mind

on nothing

in the world

the rose

carried

weight

of love

but love is

at the end

of roses

it is at the

edge of

the petal

that love

waits

if you

can bring

nothing

to this place

but your

carcass

keep out

old age

is a flight

of small

cheeping

birds

skimming

bare trees

above a

snow glaze

when I am

alone

I am happy

the air

is cool

©robertolavidez2014