PINEAPPLE LIGHTHOUSE

The Lost Pages

At eighteen,
as a delicate astral sign
of melodies with Orion
paddled the sky,
I was prone
to accidents: too much content,
very little style.

I measured the appendixes of dreams
that appeared to move
the weight of the whole
earth in progression. Someone
in the desert was always
winning us over
with meter
and raw art.

The only friend I had
was lost
in the keys
of some machine.

That year, it was Lara
(among dirty whores)
who made the meals
for the sick
to eat plump raisins
out of our hands
in the deep sun.