Wanderer, dreamer, poet, traveler
my dear man, your life in words, and deeds,
spills from the pages of miraculous like
blood silver crystals, a brilliance that shone
through the darkness of humanity

I listened at the craggy edges of the world
for love and lust, the baggy pants tied with
twirled ribbon covered in patches that no
one would wear, you wore it, still flaps a
zamacueca, each step warding away
war and injustice, each bend and sway
calling out to the ocean to safeguard
the heavy scent of your copihues,
the chicken to your hen, and I thank you
for the lessons of vermilion and tangerine
that play off the sleepy sea

she too sends me to bed
with a passionate crashing like a
requiem for the faithful guardian
now absent from her shore
she tells me of a stubborn stoneworker
hauling semi-smooth stones
from the lip of her breath
to build a cottage framed in wild flowers,
stone, salt, bread, peppers and voice

and tears
those shed by you, those shed for you

I shake sometimes in the hopes
that I might be possessed of the same
spirits that allowed you to shake
alive this tepid walk, to bring fire
into our toes and feet, to quicken
our step and our breath
as the world spins with the living
and the dead, from the subway
to the seaweed you cupped the crease
of your truth and allowed us to drink

with my face just above the gentle tide
breathing in the sea, a foam rolled finger
brushes my cheek
a reminder of the magic
your fingers wove
in heartache, exile, love
and repose