They have come.
Smelling of feathers,
But you feed fear
like two small animals
lost in the desert.
The woman who died from her blue dress is singing
Drunk on death, she sings to the sun of her intoxication.
Within her song is a blue dress,
a white horse and a green heart
tattooed with the echoes of the heartbeats of her dead heart.
When the moon calls you to join her in her arms
The trembling of a leaf ecstatic with calm:
throughout the day my desire follows
your existence, foreign to rule,
your indwelling rebellion
giving voice to my words.
In the pale dawn light
here I lie
Your body has
a completeness, a softness
meant for me.
I do not love you yet because I do love you
I waver between loving and not loving you,
Between waiting and not waiting for you.
My heart swings between hot and cold.
I love you, not as if you were a crystal rose or topaz,
or carnations darting from the fire:
I love you as some veiled things are loved,
secretly, in the shadows of the soul.
It’s three o’clock in the morning,
you awakening, she still drowsy
in the intertwined warmth of your bodies
contrasting with the refreshing night time air.