Poetry

I wonder what Spanish poets would say about this,
Bloodless, mid-August meridian,
Afternoon like a sucked-out, transparent insect shell,
Diffused, and tough to the touch.
Something about a labial, probably,
        something about the blue.

What we want
is never simple.
We move among the things

Children,
when I am ash
read by the light of the fire
that consumes me

The poem that argues successfully against death
finds its place in the book you can buy
in stores that do not sell poetry.

When it was too much, he went out
of the body’s unspeakable suffering. Rose. Stepped away.