Night of my ingrate tongue,
I want it all,
I want the sky to stop my lungs.
Do you remember how
I demanded everything impossible from you, night?
I sat upon your voluptuous cushions
like an indolent vizier.
I swallowed the whimpers of a thousand adulterers,
I demanded the towers of my oldest enemies,
and sent for the harpist, the lyre.
And before long I had sucked the marrow
from all the stars.
And you just looked at me, and grinned,
you, night of my ingrate tongue.
And instead of kingdoms, continents,
I had discovered the loneliness that is love’s core.
Do you think high fences are enough,
or the careful grass or the perfection of paint,
and the people who water their birds,
that still fly away with a hurt song?
When the shrouded hills turn over in the night,
do you think you will then feel any closer
to the sand of other solitudes?
And at that hour when the ocean
has at last been put to sleep in the leaves,
will you then believe in the
breasts of women or the lips of men?
There are things in me, and in you,
that not even the weight of others can enter,
that desolate us and leave us with
voices of blue embers.
What outer blood could calm you now,
when there is so much always undiscovered,
and so much that you cannot translate
even to yourself?
The streets go on expanding into holes in the night,
the waists of women become horizons of ruin,
and a mouth with a soured tongue
that fingers a land burning with the scent of animals,
consumes the innocent roots.
A tongue that invades the quiet thighs of lovers and dead storms,
that smothers deserts wounded with oil,
and dwells in vineyards of dry teeth.
A tongue that drips globs of lime in black seas where rain forests die,
where flowers, afflicted with flame, crawl from the trees,
to bury their faces in the soil forever.
Tongue, like a parallel sky, sleeps with a catatonic girl,
whose belly is a globe of burning ants,
whose eyes are sockets of broken rain.
Beyond the wreckage of my feast, a cicada, dark, like a warship, abides.
In its eye is a mouth with a flavour of ashes that outlives me.
And I taste, in the sweetest orange, in the ripened dawn,
a bitter pip, a murdered branch.
A warm wind of copulation
disrobes itself in the trees.
Days of the frenzied sun
show me a shadow of guitars.
A silent blood
courses through the streets,
filling the flanks of the men
and the breasts of the dead,
with a scent of watermelons.
To taste this overflow of flesh,
reminds me of the death of insects.
A cloud of copulation parts the valley,
where a wounded town lies,
soaked in a music of vagrants.
The pines there are an unreachable breath,
a loosening of spring,
a sadness in our necessary seed.
Midday strokes the thighs
of all the girls,
and brings a memory of thirst.
Each one takes from me something,
blade, foam, the sheath of saltwater,
the seaweed of my solitary joy.
Each one takes their share,
so that it might become them, or not.
Am I so easily exhausted?
For those who slept in my night of open windows,
a loam grows in the blue pit of their need,
and is a thread of messengers,
and a wind of return.
Those who fled with my blood at dawn,
are never beyond the salt of my caress.
One by one, she removes the layers of her robes,
silk, snakeskin, pearls and sand.
Beneath, she is the swift blood and a curved bone.
She is a stone of frenzy.
Men have paid handsomely
to die in this blossom of the night,
for she is a moss of infinite need,
Buddha and lotus,
sky and remorse,
the secret spring of their deepest ache.