- Books, Literature, and Writing
On a Beach in Mexico
I feel your weight in my trespassing hands,
alone in this deserted house.
I wish to unseal the silver urn,
as an archeologist searches a ruin;
churn through your bisque bones--
eyes and heart reduced to kiln remains.
Extinguished thoughts fed to the Pacific.
Now I sleep in your antique bed,
wishing I could shake the sheets
of your secrets, lay them under my ear
with your feathered pillow, call
them up in my dreams from buried silence,
rebuilding crumbled bridges and stone facades.