Breathe in
Breathe out
- one lung in the sky,
and the other buried deep underground
nurturing fiery blossom earthquakes
even if I cannot get back in time
I know I shouldn’t be smoking
Let me pour another glass of red wine

Under a portico of azaleas and carnations
hanging over chaliced water
I met Leda going down the cinnamon street,
her hair in a bun,
and asked her: “Is this what you can’t do without?”

After full nights of excavating bare-handed
for Demerara gold
and auburn torched toffee dawns
I found a black swan nestled inside my shoulder

Is this a trick or a treat,
a limerick or a limerence, I wonder,
and I keep playing upon a single word.