Voices

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.