if kisses are green and bodies verdantly exact in sameness
   let my hands be two birds glorifying the waters in the slopes
of fingers,  
  
if song is but undeath and the rise and fall the unalphabeted siren
      of the morning,

       such loose wind swaying over her silently as loincloths
   over blackred roses,  easily it breaks like a finger of a shadow
     whirling gently through opened windows in candid moonlight

but  if surely does your going signal the dawn but no birds
   wreathing the trees and no gardens inherit garlands,

  what shall then be two birds over waters but a single stride
      of sorrow and whose temporal flights disdain centrifugal faces
of waiting; measured, coveted, photographed, love everywhere fading
    where silence maims sound and music topples over the moon
       the stars  the sleepless nights and  the stellified dust of the world
             that must be opened again

who shall then dare
        dream  the    Sun  to be   a flower
or    a   new, keen city     higher than  steeples   and umbilicus of   wires
     disavowed  streets  and    herds of   proletariats?

      and   if so   then it   shall be   a flower
who   picks   itself   from the    unmoving   Earth  then what   steady light
   will     it   bring?  who  will   join it   in its   revelry  and who  shall be
    brave   with trembling  hands  to hold   it in  hand  taut   like loves
divined  and  forever   is spring   and  forever    is winter   endless with ephemeral whiteness
    and   bells    are a-ringing    and  clouds are  twitching so as to sail where
      nobody   has   ever    visited

     always    it   is   Spring
    and    in my   hand is  the  Sun   or the   florid  aureole
       burning    in my   palm   and  the moon   is my   love
            whose night   is carefully a  fraction
   of   flower placing   an inch   of sleep    in   my body,
       always   it   is  lovely

it was with greater risk that I knew
  that when I let you in,
your metaphysics, my being would acquaint
  itself to such metanoia:

that there was such an air in your voice
  that would sway me a forest and give me
a necklace of sunlight. like a well-oiled machine
  I let your gruel work its way like a beast
claiming the calm, like the youth purloining the silence,
   like the death making most frugal the earth and its troves.

little night, black bird of my heart: when you
take your flight in me, solder me up
  there, vertiginously above the floor:

     all those of much the land that coats
our feet’s trembling aches,
    all that still laughs
   without what joy shapes with its motherly hands
where you assume the stillness as something
  the shadow languages and transfixes
   in all of the days

   lays captured, a darkness too
halved, voyaging without eyes, in every direction
eclipsing with the sound of incontrovertible music,
     echoing, rippling in me with
alterations.

next onset of such peril,
   be much the silent as though concentration
   of stone – have your say, yet the susurrus
   wills your anchored voice.

finer: knowable as a book is opened and a leaf
          is turned, a star: to exact how it is to float
   deep in the celestial of your body’s ample universe,
    and take the milk of the nebula,
      for mine to drink in this silence whose dress
is white and not   blue, or anything the coruscation sings
   hewn tenderly, swelling in the wandering of words:
   whose ambitions are no less than the swell sheen
    of the borrowed moon, and greater it is than
   it shall be the only thing timid like light underneath
     the fleeting of the shade that has been stripped and
  coursed you on, naked:

  yet my hands bequeath you enough the shade,
and slowly in you persists the evening
  full not of stars that lowered themselves to
    the penetralium but of all time has erected the
day,  the twilight  and your obvious darkness.

it was blandly your image before mine,
     such fern-like hands adjust the moon’s fixated shadow staring at itself
in the mirror before death: who would not linger in such voice traipsing past
     the staircase? whose woodwork shall I seek the fragrance of spring?

also in strangeness there is a glance dizzied into liquor that yearning
    is drunk to: mazy now in the arms of attendance, before they squander the light
and shove it back to its home, they drink as though it was the most final
   of supplications,
     as though a wounded rose is pulled, a hair-trigger that is its call,
or heavier like hair, something weighted down to its empire, eyes that dread
   the dreary glint of the slow, crystalline branch outside my window in the rain
         of all watery beings converging in cusps of the Earth readying to be made loose
  amongst     breadth of  mouth  and shallow  moulds thriving  in the body
   whose house is but oblivion in half-light,

                           nourishing your heart as though it were starving
      for the cold and not your warmth, for the flame and not your embrace,
         for the flight of the azure and not the trance of your tenderness,
         something still that you are not who you were before me, when all mirrors
                       conjured the image of deaths.

the children with such earthen hands opened the book burning in Sanskrit: twilight of  Summer.
now to their own accord, they must persist in daylight, with the overgrowth arrives
           new verve to rising tendrils.
one by one, leaping out of the unclenched hands of faith, pelts of the world give
     them a renewed bounty of laughter; even the days ring true, a consortium of bells
in the nearby cathedral of Barasoain or wherever perhaps, in the streets where
   a different kind of ashen is imparted: I speak of the languor in sleep.
a gossamer canopy underneath the guava, whose leafing fingers signal them like motherless
   beacons to the sprite of the lissome afternoon – such bodies hemmed in inertia, stay
  there in search for light. blacker the wounds of trees yet insignia the name of memories,
      a river of stallions is the blood of fetal natures and I sing freely with them:
         we are the children of the loam!

you are all of the mind’s dirtiest trick:

a weathered image of Magdalena,
a sleight of hand and a swirl of skin.
                        defying the laws of inebriation like a culprit
      set loose, or the pallor of the moon excreting its habiliments.
the old rancor of the tree from its spurious beating. vestal buds of autumn
    frugal hands of drizzle in April, prostitutes pirouetting, pried open,
   dissected in faces of the tabloids (their almost acrobatic supremacy on centerfolds)

   all mangled like the unclear, yet certain picture of a 1990s havocked
      retrospect.

you are all of the mind’s filth: a putrid modal-jazz entrapment
   and I am that sad fellow at the elbow room of some dislimned establishment
       falling as lithe as poppies in spring

  only when my mind starts to sing freely, a clenched, harmonic framework
  will my bones start to unloose in the ether, death with its ammoniac perfume,
   closes in like an unwanted visitor with a bounty of silence drowning everything.

i imagine you anything but     lustrous this evening.
     there are certain points in the pressures of your gravity
that levitate to mere intersections of the finer points of ecstasy.

i imagine you    all soft   and plump  as a word   of salvage
   without the vigor   of   blandishments  when you start with   your
    own   way of  moving i imagine you  as blunt as   a dull  knife
     plunging   into   me – i imagine your  sidereal   satellites  fail  in their   coverage
   over impossibly the   blackest  of skies   in February,|

i imagine  you  anything  but clean
   and   all white and spruced up   with   the most
  drenched   light,   real   to the touch  and swiftly moving across  the afternoon
like  wishing you   all but   perverse  and   anomalous
    and   strikingly   beautiful.