Cinque Anni.

That I have the audacity, nay, impudence

to even try to write words that resemble

the shadow of a shadow of a poem

and at the same time

bathe you in the light of Neruda

simply indicates my encroaching decrepitude.

But despite my reluctance

the cut stem has already taken root

and appears to be growing

without my permission.


We have built a house from

one thousand, eight hundred and twenty five bricks;

each wall a palette of weathered earth tones,

a patina that resembles Venice.

The roof is sound.

The windows reflect canals,

striped sun and rhapsodic cats

and are liquid with rain.

The doors are open more than closed

and are streaked with our juices.

The garden is full of jungled sweat,

sweet bird song and bursting fruit.

The kitchen births delights for nose and tongue.

The couch is napping

but the bedroom tires of quietude

and dreams of knotted ecstasy.


Cinque, cinque;

an oddly familiar number

given to fingers and toes

and magic pentagrams

multiplied by innumerable

words, touches, skies, wakings,

openings, closings and sharings.

A dance in five movements,

that has filled five years

with beauty.

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