i.

And I have decompressed time into the face
of my Beloved.

Solemnly.
Delightfully.
Righteously,
I compress the sighs of my life
into breath, one after the other,
for the fruit falls not far from the tree
and its branches sing praise to the sky.

Smoke inside a bubble is still smoke, our shadows
rise above.

ii.

Bukowski said there is a bluebird in every poet's heart,
to claim
the remains of its day in the sun,
there is
laughter in the redolent seaweed, for the shade
is not
a shadow
unless something stands in its way.

Destiny knocks with alchemy in its hands then
throws the key of revelation, there are
foot soldiers marching on every path and a loaded gun
in every reckoning,
leaves can not cling beyond the fall of their endurance,
pirouetting their descent into strange eyes.

Leaves curl into gold then rust. Wind will blow them away.