Comforted by the rough of the stucco wall, my back
leaning on the hint of dew as I watch the moon hide
out of shame, alone now, struggling to finish the day,
trying to unearth all blues in the black of the night,
I dream of vapors, I pine for disappearance, I yearn
to be swallowed whole in the blinding dark, leaving
only the outlines of my toes, the weight of my feet
unerased on the moist earth, the unfinished count
of the stars.

Death is sensuality ruined by grief, the memories
of rain rousing the laziness of the clay roof, the sill
made of wood for soaking, the sharp edges of grass,
the boughs cracking, my ears listening, also, dying
is the interruption of urges, my body sweating even
in the coldest of winter, my drying mouth looking
for different saliva, sugar, the unshakable streams
flowing from my shut eyes reminding me of every
wet season.