The candlewick is close to my match,
And the heart's eye
Is startled of every shadow,
So let me in slowly.
A flung off illusion,
The question no longer robs me of my alertness.
A mediator for every dusty breast
Wherever you spread your wheat.
My whistle follows your braids
Broken upon the hay,
And the village that
Your caftan's flowers farewelled
Gurgles its cypresses in cafés' hookahs,
And makes fun of my suspicion at the end of my years
And of my children
Who fear nighttime as well as frogs.
I divulged much to you
So you could pass by without looking,
And forgot that
Taught me to sip the thickened juice of nipples
As well as the ends of cigarettes
Passing through your husks
Without a scratch,
And I miss the day
The ink was stolen
To the whispering of straw under your flesh.
Let me in as I am
To argue within you
Every cursed red
Every transparent green
Cold in its well
Every stem of thyme hot to the taste
Every drop of honey
A cupful in your eyes
And homeland is far, far away
Its fingernails in my skin
I walk through it confident
Of the clouds' blessings on my fingers,
Of your similar earth
Of every reckless beam of lightning.
Don't nurture you in my cage
And your colors have escaped from the painting
And have trespassed into a mineral autumn.
Of your feet is
Consecrated to god's chasm.
Slowly put your concerns in order
And await my wooden racehorse,
Await the darkness
So we can hold our small wedding,
Merge our lips
And thank god
For that which stands without a crutch.
For the next poem in this sequence, click here.