I wouldn’t say I am at a loss,
for speech, for words, for flowers.
It’s just that, in the mouth
there is something,
dark, growing, blooming,
I call it death,
but really it is the birth
of an exquisite black currant.
Where am I going?
I’m going to the middle,
to the heart of the black currant.
At each bite, through the skin,
itself a galaxy, a life, a cold and deserted song,
I’m wading into the flesh,
It is a breast, a fullness between my teeth.
I know what I will find there
at the centre.
It is not a final nipple, not
completion, lust, perfection, fleeing guitar.
At each bite, the currant diminishes,
at each bite, the lungs full,
so gorged with the juice of fear and sleep.
Animals sleep in huddles of sand.
My palm is a vast plain in the night.
A single tree shelters the
the current of my death in the desert.
A wind like a woman strips the dripping canyons.
What is it I find at the centre of my currant?
All fruit falls in the mouth of death,
my voice blooms in the mouth of death,
an ejaculation of stars,
smeared over the parallel skin of her waist.