Collection Of Wrongs Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

And you – from knowing, to forgetting
And setting into oblivion, ashen-pages burning
Fret into the dark, and go about wildly in the morning
Then enkindled like a wick of a candle, your heart
An autumn garage – a winter warehouse
A summer pool and a tempest glare

Let us talk, conversing like stars
In the milky constellated night that is farce
To cringe in the morning’s square chin
In the presence of the speeding cars,
I talk, you respond – even in the pitch black rooms
Or in the intensely lit elbow couch
If the stars were boring, and if my words were truncated
Then what is a night sliced in half and sifted
From the slow movements of the clock

Let us go out, cavort under the Sun,
And then abandon everything from books,
To family, Sunday school, life, existence
And the heavy breathing – leave them all on the wet concrete
And let us dine not with people, but with tulips
And stories of war and exploits
So with one more mastication of tender meat,
Will you let me touch your perfectly-sculpted face?
Will you let me tousle your hair, as if to look silly
But splendid – the perfect marvel if heaven had a face
Will you? If you do, then you are an autumn garage

If to ruin, and to release in shambles
Is to love you in a labyrinth and close all porticos
Or yet, a lopsided gamble with the slow dealing of the cards
Waiting for luck to turn every after dime, sadly luck is false
So ride the wind and jeer upon the distance in between
Light at the shadows behind a burning bush
Why do I always write about you, darling?
Is it because, astride past the ripples of water,
There is your buoyant body by the bosom of the sea
Of poignant memories?

Do I, or do I not know that love is long
But not long enough to make me believe
That in same wavelengths of your hair,
Your chiseled face, your auburn eyes
And hazel air, there is a lapse in fate –
And that the body of serendipity is a torched book
With blanched covers of skin, and thin lips

I don’t know any about this,
But one thing alone, and certainty is a diamond
Among rose, emerald and topaz –
Dearly valued as the infinite glint of a garish skin;
Enough, for there is loneliness that one can hear
From the pouring of the rain or hail,
In the sluggish motion of the clocks,
The tireless writhing of a pendulum,
And a doleful waiting by a train station.