Juan Niyebe

Oh how we dream of snow
Of rain that had just hardened scantly
Of colder winds than sunlight scorching—

Snowflakes fall on a plywood shanty
Nubs of ice melt tomorrow afternoon
On the metal sheets which are roofs
Why do we dream of winter ear muffs?

Is it that we are tired of the rain?
When snow that falls is precipitation
When hail is ten times less participative
When pounds of snow that melt will flood the streets?

Is it that we envy the Western joys of it?
Or is it that we are desperate?

Where To?

To madness you drive me
but I take the wheel.
I make a blunt U-turn,
suggest that I steer
us into separation;
finally alone—
just you and you only
and me and me alone.
You tell me to drop you
off at some stop.
I concur silently

Farewell

The Equation

What is the equation
to an inkling, a memory
of a love once burning?

Is it nostalgia and the
countenance of a
woodland sprite?

Is it typewriters
and the letters
that are now ash?

Is it the sun but
without
a single drop of rain?

Is it twice the number
of mosquitoes
to the number of deaths?

Is it sadness
without the tears
or madness
without the capability?

Is it all of this,
adding whatever
insult to injury?

Tell me, love.

What is the equation
to a life worth enduring—
or is it indefinite after all?