Come with me, I said, and no one knew
where, or how my pain throbbed,
no carnations or barcaroles for me,
only a wound that love had opened.

I said it again: Come with me, as if I were dying,
and no one saw the moon that bled in my mouth
or the blood that rose into the silence.
O Love, now we can forget the star that has such thorns!

That is why when I heard your voice repeat
Come with me, it was as if you had let loose
the grief, the love, the fury of a cork-trapped wine

the geysers flooding from deep in its vault:
in my mouth I felt the taste of fire again,
of blood and carnations, of rock and scald.

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

Every day you play with the light of the universe.
Subtle visitor, you arrive in the flower and the water,
You are more than this white head that I hold tightly
as a bunch of flowers, every day, between my hands.

You are like nobody since I love you.
Let me spread you out among yellow garlands.
Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south?
Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed.

Suddenly the wind howls and bangs at my shut window.
The sky is a net crammed with shadowy fish.
Here all the winds let go sooner or later, all of them.
The rain takes off her clothes.

The birds go by, fleeing.
The wind.  The wind.
I alone can contend against the power of men.
The storm whirls dark leaves
and turns loose all the boats that were moored last night to the sky.

You are here.  Oh, you do not run away.
You will answer me to the last cry.
Curl round me as though you were frightened.
Even so, a strange shadow once ran through your eyes.

Now, now too, little one, you bring me honeysuckle,
and even your ******* smell of it.
While the sad wind goes slaughtering butterflies
I love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth.

How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me,
my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running.
So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes,
and over our heads the grey light unwinds in turning fans.

My words rained over you, stroking you.
A long time I have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of your body.
Until I even believe that you own the universe.
I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells, dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.
I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.

his laugh-
a continuous tsunami over
the under-privileged third world of my body.

In this city, every morning begins with a Siren
one bright and brilliant Eastern Awakening
that doesn't carry with it a threat
to sing us lovingly to some romantically unknown demise.

Yet we've forgotten that our ears aren't the only part
of ourselves capable of hearing & we've forgotten
of how our eyes read each others long before language
could be taught with structure.

So we lay in bed and await
the cheaper sirens of bad news or an alarm
to superficially awake us and send us off to tally
another day towards death.

I overhear people in the bustle speak of life
as if it were paused in the present, so I buy my
black coffee and when you don't hear me say thank-you
its because you never looked up.

She would put on lipstick at midnight,
because her favorite show was on
and she always liked to look good when she was appreciating something
as if the novelty could be French-kissed unexpectedly.

Her lunches were always spent alone,
with a used book from an online vendor
and her throat would always close up when someone asked to join
as if they had interrupted her touching herself.

She had a self-designated seat on the public tram,
because slave laborers are always penny-pinchers
and she needed to close her eyes in order to see the light dance
as if she were a paradoxical vampire feeding off the sun.

You know, she was always forgetting the past,
never knowing how everyone else could remember so much
and she would roll around cold liquid in her mouth
as if life was too surreal to not look pensive.

She never understood what people did with their time.
She never understood how they could fit more pieces into their 8 by 4 plots.
She never understood how classical music could not move them to tears.

I found myself meandering through churches of
political discussions-debating the ever stale rights
of each citizen dissolving into the crowded bars. Clinking
glasses with more feeling than their fingers on holiday.

Someone began to say “Life is…” and I stopped them
right there, because who wants to sit for bad ideas when
today is really for travelling to heaven and
I'm sick of sinking into the landscape. I am
already a hundred miles through the cracks in
the world; we’re really all just piecemeal bizarre
occurrences.

You appeared in my passengers’ seat while
before I thought I was just thinking about taking
a road trip to you and all this time I've been
driving through New York City with God.

For the first fifteen minutes all you could comment on the
was how shallow the lights seemed and I've got to
be honest, I never heard the rest because I was too busy
trying to decipher the Latin phrases that overwhelmed
your skin. Next thing I know, you had tears on your chin-
talking about how you wished all women could understand that
their blood is the same which pumps through wild geese.

jesus, are you my savior?
you're so light on my tongue,
I've sacrificed things I didn't even know
I'd attached to.