she does not speak to me often in this way
she is the virile silence of walking truly like meadows

their time is always perfect and infinitely perfectlessness
how skies do not sing birds but are only masters of truth

but she is tender and fierce she shows me that they are innocent

when, I, confounded, aswirl with origami of things past,
she shows me a bestilled flapping silence of forgotten things

she does not speak often in this way

when her hands are like eagles tending planets
there is a secret river her eyes are filled with

these pupils of newborn seeking first sight
its graves and their strolling kisses no clock dares lie another tick

she is brightly curved; night seeks to master her sleeping motions
there is the skin of all salads I imagine I came from

when she is gone I feel  rain graveyards feed to oceans
when water braided through myths and legends and lies
is truest perfect lover, but no perfect lover is so tender and fierce

she has taught me in this way how I am
if I am a perfect child, then I am a perfect man

                                                but she whispers to me
"this is why the wind is so filled with sleep"

I know why the wind is the slave of kites
and why balloons are thoughtful, secretly joyless,
but filled with bad dogs and hope

when she touches small flowers and leaves them be
I know why birds are most beautiful in flight
gracefully jetting terrifying rivers

she walking strums wild instruments into me
I wish to play like birds but only newborns are masters of truth

                                                but she whispers to me
"this is why the wind is so filled with laughter"








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