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They open the way this little porth
Fills up under the window:
Quietly unstoppably, but are
Not pulled by the moon, the dullest twilight
Works them deep enough
And the damp imago clambers into the air.
This I had patience for, this I could watch
Through all the starts and restings
And even when they looked to be hovering on witholding
Then my credence
That I had feared dead in its clamped shell
Beckoned them further out.
It bowed me again into the aura of your face
Again into the scent of what it feels like
When love, frail thing,
Forces itself into being seen, the unstoppable
Helpless, the unbelievable
Beginning to be believed
Whose opening scent is like
Warmth off the moon
Or the cold off your face when you entered my house and home
Sweet love, sweet breath of it
From these tall flowers, from their pale faces
Opened on the air, earthy.
From Matter No 6 (2006)
I hear shots.
It’s the wind, I say.
Then, loud murmurs.
Surely the fountain below my room.
The moon is a bruised fist tonight.
It has obliterated the stars.
I sleepwalk across the tiny island
to you, mi Hombre Sin Miedo,
my stony love.
It’s dark and the padre in the chapel
with his missing arm and chipped toes
is soaked in yellow holy halo.
But you mi amor, my lichen-crusted
beloved, stand against this moon-lit wall,
eyes sewn to the sea. Such sadness
in the curve of your spine, the tilt of your neck.
Does the smell of death still reek
through the crevices of this blood-stained wall?
Do the cries of men in Franco’s blizzard of lead
still echo in the chiseled chambers of these ears?
Here are my eyelashes.
Take them in your lips.
Here is my forehead.
Let it rest on your chin.
Here is my tongue.
Something behind the wall shudders and
shakes
the ancient oak. Leaves flutter and rain.
We kiss like ghosts.
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