On the first day in the first month, she wrote this to me...
Sing to me... singer of you and me
The night is ending.
In the dark warm shadows, whisper my name...
I cannot whisper yours... you are my name.
I am the outer chamber of your heart,
Pulsing as it pulses, quieting as it quiets.
The night is ending
Light streams from the rim of the sky and flashes along
the curve of your body... dark in front, thigh on fire
Touch it, the cat's fur of your skin...
The shape of you vibrates, shimmers
There is no need to sleep.
Sing to me.
On the sixth day in the first month, I wrote this to her...
The light is green beneath the sun
The grasses reflect and sway to your moving body
Every part of you is open... spread, unafraid.
I lick your naked skin until my tongue becomes
warm and numb
The heat of your blood bakes the moaning rising music
of your throat into a taste...
A cream taste of sweat and yeast and tender flesh.
Every part of you spreads, stretches to cover the horizon.
You are the planet of woman and I am your moon.
On the 11th day in the first month, I wrote this to her...
How many times can I kiss you?
How many places on your lips
can my tongue stop and taste
the salt sweet sap that rises...
Up from your garden roots...
Through the stem of your body...
Into the petals of the flower of your face?
Your face shines and moves...
Moist, the rain from my eyes is transparent,
Liquid glass, the faintest trace of silver.
It washes the delicate flower you press against me.
How many times can I kiss you?
