Sunday, September 10, 2006


Silence gives way
to round little vowels
that ooze from your lips
like sweet ripened fruit
at the touch of my hand.

A slow string of ohs
owned by ghosts
filling the air
with the heaviness of petrified music
long after spoken.
Voice pearls.

The laws of everything
fail in lovemaking.
My ears can see your face
by the tone of your ohs.
My eyes can taste the burning flesh
by the position of your legs,
and my hand can hear the rapid beating
of your heart as it slides down your chest.

DQ 9/9/06


RC said...

"...the beating
of your heart as it slides down your chest." Wow!

luc u! said...

good lord i love this poem diego!!!

keros said...

Reyes and Luc U! thanks for reading. I should really stop by here more often- Mipo has always been the hot bed for fresh voices like yourselves.