Paraiso

waking up with numb fingers

having slept wrong in the bellies of stars

it's the middle of the night

the mask forms and falls

a knot in the fume of oily hands

inchoate thoughts move without sound

dragging cold antibodies

to fill empty seats

are we here or farther

lost

a cracking of dry grain as

the palette of the sky itself falls

wings broken

just days out from the jungle

and death laughs

we are kicking the door into a basement

where the martyred heart burns

over words that ring like picket fences

drained from lips

which taste of nothing

it is warm and raining

on decommissioned war guns

drawn backwards in a plume

just as pieces hit the sea

feathers falling from old bottles

as we stumble into the ancestor's tomb

stomachs already full

waiting for a warmth we knew as kids

as it was before

hurry

she says the last time

the light comes back

she says

but there's not much