The further I drift out from myself the more

I am left with a yearning to scrape the valley out of my chest

the more I inhabit this suffocating closeness coating my bones

the more I dwell in this star

my body flung through the sky until it reaches hell's threshold

and the light envelops my memory

made sacred through words marked with spittle

marking tomorrow with my children

marking my children with voices that thrash the silence with thorns—

Time comes between us as a membrane inked with colors

color of my corpse blotting out the Sun

color of the song caught in my throat

color of God where he fell to earth

color of love                Color of birds and color of night

color of the faithful vomiting bullets

Manuel's white face the day he survived the raids

color of his rage the day it burned me—

but I'm not there and you're not there

in that memory, in that membrane of colors

when your glance falls outside the window pane

with no way in that being in between

in that devastation and oblique flight

I'm not there and you're not

the place where our specters meet

our faces deformed, destroyed by
no vestige of desire left

we meet there & hallucinate agonistic presences—

o angel

in my dream your hand goes under my head

I insist you place your hand under my head

again and again

o angel

the durable mud of my skin is crumbling from atop the aerie

I want to feel the tremor of those heights