I
of a broken heart
and sleeping beside you
your thick blood
pools in the wine
cellars of your legs
in the dreaming
of your bitter mouth
II
I do not want life to be bread
but a long trail of wooden bars
in the afternoon of spring
after a shower where the wood
smells fresh and wet
the people are new and the slow
twilight is indefinable like oil.
III
The husk of the butterfly
stayed watching us and gradually
the moist loneliness wounded you.
IV
My love, I cannot write anything beautiful
about the sea. Since you are not in it.
And no roof, or birth, or moon rises,
no fruit turns pink, because you have
not tasted it.
V
It is the skin around the eyes
the sleepy hinge to the eternal
rubbed soft with the premonition
of music and soaking peaches
that scents the rain,
that flours at the touch of pestle.
