Some are for men I don't know.
The ones barreling down the street
in full-size pickup trucks.
One bronzed arm resting on the open
window, while the other navigates
the wheel. Baseball cap flipped backwards.

Some are for the men I see
coming out of the steel factory at 5 o'clock.
Dirt and grime across their hard-turned faces.
Flannel shirts, steel toe'd boots and cigarettes
dangling from their whisker topped mouths.

Others I write to my father, pretending to be
my mother. I weave a dark love song
with my words. I strip the sea between
their continents and bring them back together.

Some I write for other poets.
For Cesare who sits in his tavern drinking
his sad wine and smoking his pipe.
For Pessoa with his gloomy face,
rustling his way through the silent,
steady streets of Rua dos Douradores,
his enormous tapestry of thoughts
embroidered now into my very soul.

For Rilke, to whom I've written many.
For Gregory and for Goethe, a simple set of phrases
to soften the sharp edges of their minds.

Not every poem I write is for him.
Only the one's that spill from me like the dark juices
of a blood red fruit. Only those that pour out of me
like beads of silver rain from a swollen sky. The kind
you tip your open mouth to.

You will know which poem's are for him
by the savage language I use, my bleeding lips,
and when you set the page down and walk away,
by the stench of wet stone and crushed flowers
that lingers for hours on your fingertips.