Poetry

When the sun goes down bleeding 
beyond the hills yonder, 
I will meet you under 
the acacias. 
 
As a souvenir I will keep 
your lips in my books for history. 
As a gift I will give you 
my tears. 
 
This desert of hate has bleached 
my fingers, bone white. 
I cannot write a monologue 
of death in waning light. 
 
I wake to sleep in blasts. 
My palms hold out the great silence.