Snapshots of Rain

The roads mirror the sadness
of peeling walls.

Feet hurry and hide
beneath the thin
wings of parasols.

Their stares are not the only thing cold:
the statues,

they'd shiver
if only no one
would notice.

Paradiddles on roofs,
splashes in potholes.

I sit
in a sardined jeep,
thinking of home,

where
mother is readying
a bowl of soup for my return.

After the rain has ended,
the only one left to ask where home is
is the vagrant pushing
his cart along the sidewalk.

Like an Old Book

I've read this Sunday,
I lay you on my chest
After the day’s chores.

From this recline
I'll open the pages
Of a dream where you are
A princess missing
One of her glass slippers.

(And I, a prince
Whose role, for sure,
By now, you know.)

So how are you?

What have you felt lately
Save from the rise and fall
Of this ribcage?

Aves

The reason things depart we do not know.
How, for example, a pigeon nestling on a tree
shoots straight off a forked branch
to the blazing skies of sundown.

Or how in twilight,
my hand, like a bird in search
of a new habitat, reaches for yours
and grasps nothing but the plumage of air.