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passing moments jaime robles

passing moments

jaime robles


the color of tourmaline shines unsteadily on the floor forever seems a hoop of light, a gift in the land between my palms

a small rain cloud.

waves unfold and birds grow distant over water

in muted grays we are quiet and thorough.

green slopes out the window

home’s ragged terrains


like geometries of landscape the body’s skin a cape laden with episodes monologue of fire-laced wood an expanse neither blue nor ceaseless


i think of california. burnt grass, stiff and cropped

i predict a startle of birds. elation of new growth your thursday voice revolutions, clouds smeared on deep air better to ask who shuffles, who deals

flight: amber tracings, shadows from clouds overhead. the horizon’s tilt sheds vertical song flashes with wings


and near your eyes which are blue like mine

floats the hook of an unlocked gate

the afternoon garden buckles under milky sky. elsewhere apparitions tumble across the grass cloud over thick rosemary

flaming blue

leafless sticks of hedges observe precise angles, evening fields melt into wooly parcels

country lanes contrive streets wet, slick, unpeeled of motion you like light wrapped in a tongue

two minor chords. fingers wrapping the chair’s arm wooden floor under the carpet the sound of pages turning


in the silence between the heart’s beats words separate, a bright bandana waves and morning floats up, unfurls the cries of trees

Thanks to Donna and Kevin Cox Photographs and poems copyright Š 2013 by Jaime Robles

Passing moments