A city spills
out under November
blue morning sky
perfumed by kerosene spills
of the airport.
.
A single yellowed leaf spills
from the sycamore.
Unbalanced it spills
another:
each as a candle
blown out at night.
Below the ripple spills
my thoughts deep
like a still lake.
In my embrace
she is the sky.
Rubber-band stretched to snap,
her head is back,
face filmed by a sunbeam.
Saxophones flirt;
saxophones rumble.
.
She touches me with her light.
She plays beauty to my heart:
black hair dumbs my heart-beat.
Careful, fire licks my foot.
.
Salsa
En mi abrazo
ella es el cielo.
Como una gomita se estira para romperse,
su cabeza se inclina,
un rayo de sol filma su cara.
Saxofones coquetean,
saxofones retumban.
Ella me toca con su luz,
ella da belleza a mi corazón:
su pelo negro deja mudo mi latido.
Cuidadoso, el fuego lame mi pie.
A bellyful of black humour
rumbled over Lac Saint-Louis
pierced by bright sparks
who thought they could
brighten up an occasion
of which Notre Dame
de-l’ile-Perrot would ill
approve with her catholic tastes.
The audience planted up front
fidgeted uncomfortably
and turned against the cracks
and the quick fire repartee,
their veins charged with the pulse
of the fear of the next one liner.
.
Fork is a four letter word flashed
from a moving microphone
on a stage show, a prelude to pellets
of angry satire sprayed without care.
Final folds of incoming tide
crumble over marbled marzipan.
their fingerprints are peeled
into palms that peek
out from algae shawled rocks,
hunched and gnarled as fisherwomen.
Bubbles squirm, silver stars
set free in an exploding galaxy.
Waves scrawl a hissing message
on pads of shingle.
~~~~~~~~~~
Out of reach of crab claw piers,
moonlit doodles on the wash
are shaken by the throb of drave boats.
With full spinnakers of shrieking gulls,
boats creak home to berth
under the strain of gutfuls of herring.
~~~~~~~~~~
Glowering over the spilt inkwell
of the firth, mountains
bare with grey streaks are topped
by wigs of raincloud.
~~~~~~~~~~
Two lovers unite,
a wriggling hand submerged
in each other’s back pocket.
From caverns
in the sap spitting log fire,
a stream of orange and yellow
pours through the quarter panes
of the corbie-staned howf
into a pool which stains their shoes.
~~~~~~~~~~
On the waterfront,
a bench is occupied by
a man with an autumn face
and a woman with yesterday eyes.
Esperando a que Baje la Marea
Pliegues finales de marea alta
desmoronándose sobre un mazapán de mármol.
Sus huellas dactilares revelando
palmeras que se asoman
entre rocas cubiertas de algas,
jorobadas y anudadas como pescadoras.
Burbujas se retuercen, estrellas plateadas
liberadas en una galaxia naciente.
Las olas esbozan un mensaje siseando
sobre libretas de guijarros.
~~~~~~~~~~
Fuera del alcance de los muelles
garabatos de luz de luna en el horizonte
interrumpidos por la vibración de los barcos.
Conciertos de gaviotas chillando,
los barcos se arrastran hasta el amarradero
con la barriga llena de arenques.
Frunciendo el ceño sobre el tintero derramado
del estuario escondido, montañas
desnudas de gris son cubiertas
por peluquines de nubes de tormenta.
Dos amantes se unen,
manos juguetonas sumergidas
en los bolsillos traseros de pantalones.
Desde cavernas
donde el fuego de leña escupe salvia,
corrientes naranjas y amarillas
fluyen a través de ventanillas
de cabañas de piedra
a charcas que se reflejan en sus zapatos.
En el paseo marítimo,
un banco lo ocupan
un hombre con rostro de otoño
y una mujer con ojos de ayer.
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