What doubles our existence
But your solar entanglement.
What is awash with astonishment,
What cages the minutes
But your solar entanglement.

What seeds snow with light,
Where are the shores of distance,
What sounds out the silence of blue,
What pours unrecompensed
But your solar entanglement.

What sows stardust into bone,
What is the source of an endless hour,
What swims in amethyst,
What is the origin of all origins
But your solar entanglement.

What sculpts mountain shadows,
What writes with the ink of night,
What shines on our beds,
What opens all windows on the sea
But your solar entanglement.

What bleeds fire on mist,
What dies ensanguining the sky.
What is the light in the grave,
What buries poetry in the earth
But your solar entanglement.

When I see my love is hurt
I want to blame myself for everything.
I want to tear down a jail
And build one that might hold me.
I want to set fire to the air
And drag bureaucrats by the hair.
I want to castrate misogynists
And feed their bits to hypocrites.
I want to hammer nails into water
And keep the current of my rage in place.
I want to hold that rage
In my hands like volcanic lava,
Like venomous snakes
I could hurl in their faces,
Like bombs of enlightenment
That explode at indictment.
When I see my love is hurt
I want to blame myself for everything.
I want to tear down a jail
And build one that might hold me.
I want to kiss her pain until I bleed.
I want to bring down the envious
With a gun made from a powerful book
And the curses of my most hateful look,
When I see my love is hurt.

Let the slow boy speak
Said the teachers who hadn’t caught up to me.
Let him read his slow poems
That have already passed by us unheard.
Let the left-handed boy try
The nuns said, who struggled to correct me.
Let the immigrant boy sing between languages,
Teaching the shared meanings
Of his third language.
Burn up your degrees, you academic poets,
The slow boy with a barber’s razor
Cuts you with a single pass.
Throw out your papers, city intellects,
The boy from provincial Sicily
Sings like a stab wound to the sun,
The boy from a foreign place
Sings with native grace.

The bay moon crawls into the room
eight arms full of lunar presence

undulating with its own intelligence
writing visibly from within

it makes our skin all one color
before laying down on our bed

drawing in the tide
with the tenderness of its limbs

until we are the dream lovers
of each other

its reflection on the water
peering into its own distant eye

with a gentle voice that shares voices
with vanishing ink