Our love On the verge of sinking into the shadow of what I write. Clear statues, moonlit words, Bare ships on the bulkheads of kisses, Howls from the lighthouse guiding us to the salt of ***. Our tide was brief.
She, petal by petal, On the ground, in the sky of her mouth, in the breath of the earth. She was sublime, recited by Virgil or Solon, In every stanza, a ship crosses me, ablaze, heading to her. She sleeps, and I, at her feet.
He, who climbs the stairs around the stars. I once heard him sob a song of the earth, back when animals had not yet invented the final sacrifices, nor had the night turned the day into its opposite.
Immolated hands close sunflowers. The restless sea echoes where pain is most dreadful. Pain exists and resists the fight we put up against it. The pain that never sleeps is terrible. It dances with us all night like a wolf. Like a pack of wolves. We hold each other tight to avoid losing ourselves in it.
Your hand reaches the depth of a fruit You dream the interior of that fruit with the right geometry And your head falls asleep in the burst of a bee’s examination And at night, when the stars align by reason, Your hand once again reaches the depth of that fruit Of the poem and of ***.
They call us, The dead. Lamenting the sway of entire fields of grain. They, With a mantle of countless lives we owe, Call us. When we quench the rough throat, When we lay down the axes, When we bow and pray, When we strive and live.