If I could write the radiance of birds
Or name the births of all the continents,
Would I be closer to your secret mind?
Others have touched the penetralia
Of your obscure recess, so why can’t I?
When will the azure of your voice proclaim
The feasts of patience come? Never?
The death of a wish hardly makes a sound.
Walking around naked on the moon
I stop only to consider the coffee stain
In the glass of the soul
The house is defenestrated with griffin claws
And a leopard is laughing at emptiness
Some people are never
Satisfied they didn’t discover the Pacific
Not even I can wish you away
The moon mirrors the seasons and the years
Which disappear into its silver mouth
And then return like a second, invisible sun
Illuminating half-remembered dreams.
What are you doing here?
It’s wonderful to be in your arms.
At last the corridors lead to other rooms
And I lose you among the ghosts and guests.