a man,
walking
in a slow dream

caught
in the last light
of who left before him

follows
a lost youth, where
the air is still sweet,

where
the shade, wild
as the flowers

who carved them
on her shoulders:
the very same ones

violins
all over the world
ache for.

beyond
the lazy labyrinth
of fingerprints,

beneath
the spring dust
settling atop

the sun
hiding under
her half-moon eyelids,

his fluency
returns to him
in her taste.

love:
to be stung
alive,

love:
where all are wise
but he.

for the man
who walks
in a slow dream

knows
nothing
of she

who
put him
there.