but I told you before
that to say anything
to try in any way
is to deviate,
to fail.
To be, my love,
to be in love,
and completely be that.
I've looked at Nature
and seen you in her,
Her in you;
and art and music
even in time,
moments in which I dive
into you.
"I am you"?
I wouldn't say all that,
but I can pass through,
there is a road
we both knew
and we took it
and here we are
you are the air
the trees the stars
the path
the laughs
the companion
the object,
if I may confess my sin here,
the object
of my love
of all my real and imagined affections.
How I love you has no gaze
no particular look which,
in and of itself can say a word
or even dare turn the page.
There we are in the book
the babbling Ganjis making silt
of even those of faith,
the Chrenobyl of the totem
cold scroll, ocean black with gold,
the future upon the podium.
A slip into the blacknesss,
like a duck, my sympathies to the fish,
and to man,
my love must rise above these
laments.
And so I sit beside the window, open,
write with the time of my sacred and short life,
that one might hear, I have abandoned that
and no longer try,
That is when you and l lay
and I say nothing
and you say nothing
but the sun is burning there
keeping our bodies warm a millions times
in each cell, in each moment,
and we drown into sleep
a watery joy from which we leap
and slip around in the tides
of the winds and
and
and
well,
I love you,
and you take me there,
round and about,
deep to the sweat of the Earth
where the seas still squalk
with gulls
and the honesty
of a heart thrown there.
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