Pure blue
rhumba attitude
lashed my pale,
colloquial sights
to a memory of wind.
You claimed the rain
to be your demi-god,
your eyes the souls of angels.

Standing near
notorious sin
you led the procession
of men
of memoried lovers
before me, each one
a mirrored reflection,
corpulent, doleful,
with whimsy sighs
of half-hearted regret.

She knew everything,
held Christ like a child
in her mind,
the devil in her thoughts.

Whispers
those sad, mournful cries,
eloquent in their perversion,
their masticating grin
still chews at my bones
with soft, rainy teeth.

Spring-time dines
on the blood of lost loves.

Thunder echoes the last cry
of passionate good-bye.