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by: Carlos Angeles

Sun in the knifed horizon bleeds the sky,

Spilling a peacock stain upon the hands,

Across some murdered rocks refused to die.

It is your absence touches my sad hands

Blinded like flags in the wreck of the air.

And catacombs of cloud enshroud the cool

And calm involvement of the darkened plains,

The stunted mourners here: and here, a full

And universal tenderness which drains

The sucked and golden breath of sky comes bare.

Now while the dark basins the void of space,

Some sudden crickets, ambushing me near,

Discover vowels of your whispered face

And subtly cry. I touch your absence here

Remembering the speeches of your hair.