1.

On the metro 

my eyes are red 

with rain 

that could not bring silence 

or carve the U of sound 

from a funeral bell.

You have become the color of my words

drawing yourself from nearby leaves

to fill my mouth

to make the hue of my name or yours.

And between this window and the moon

is your body

moving through white blood 

before first light 

before the shadow and the dew,

your fingers turning out the stars 

to speak darker:

a word, draining the need for winter 

from the pale of your face,

a final breath to keep me young.

2.

Who hasn’t felt his heart tugged

by a slivered moon

or walked on legs of wine 

‘round red halos on linoleum

hearing her voice 

in the shushing wind? 

Naoko.

The sound of the world creaking,

of the road being watched

as she departs 

smaller and smaller

until just a mirrored fleck 

in the eyes of a wasted life.