With all your expert mouth and
tongue of many tribes you
call me to the dance floor
of your poetry.

I ear your accent, I tongue the
vowels of your incredible name

which blossoms every morning.
I bed to your brown eyes when
touch begs rest from incessant
breathing.

You are wheat chaff and I am
the wind which blows over the dead dreams of aged memory.

I understand now the satiety
of your love.  The desert of
uncertainty where the bridge
of your wanderings
crossed my month
of ecstasy.

You are the list I take to
mind's far places when
thoughts of you are

exhausted.


Caroline Shank

the raindrops  commit suicide  on the window
as if
they washed the  goodbye  message with the blood of the water,

- the rain today carries swords like a samurai,
kills the morning,
the horizon is a simple bandana ******* on the eyes,

don't worry,
in case if you do not come
i will understand, - we will be those, others
in their words,
their lips, their smell and
their mornings, -
sometimes
dressed up in discreet clothes,  other times naked
on the knees
dragging our elbows (as in a war),
elbows gnawed by others,

their rain
will bring back the good splashes for the lonely ones like us, but
not the single one

in a blister of days,
it is raining,
finally
- raining