I shiver in the desert heat,
gazing as the poet at the echos
rebounding from the memory chest,
touching with sweet pleasure
our downy surfaces, our violet whispers.
You are right here near my bony left elbow
seven thousand miles away, so close
that your skin rubs mine into silk
and causes my few hairs to sing cantatas in mandarin chinese.
Rilke sits nearby composing sonets to lost doves,
And your voice pierces the air wrapped ´round my heart,
And your hands caress the wind as cummings chews on roasted blue berries
And you caress the wrinkes on my fingers,
as if they were but puppy fur,
your, vast eyes of red blue.
And so we hear each other eeking and creaking
And so we feel each other clicking and clacking
And so we touch each other sobbing and laughing
And so we await each other as we wait for the bacon and eggs
next morning, with love in our toes and joy in our hearts.
Locked in the dear crevice of my heart
I look up awaiting the night´s hidden light
so as to ask you how we should speak to that hidden star,
how we should memorize the caresses our gods have bestowed on us
so indulently, so surprisingly, with so much inner music.