Your Infancy in Mention
Yes, your childhood now a fable of fountains. The train and the woman filling the sky. Your shy solitude in the hotels and your pure mask of another sign. It is the sea's childhood and your silence where the wise windows were breaking. It is your stiff ignorance where my torso was limited by fire. I gave you the norm of love, man of Apollo, the lament of a crazed nightingale, but, pasture of ruin, you sharpened yourself for brief, indecisive dreams. Thought head on, light of yesterday, indices and signs of what may be. Your waist of restless sand follows only trails that never rise. But without you your warm soul fails to understand. I must search the corners of a halted Apollo that I've used to break the mask you wear. There, lion, fury of heaven, I will let you graze on my cheeks; there, blue horse of my madness, pulse of nebula and minute hand, I must search for scorpion stones and your mother's childhood clothes, midnight lament and torn cloth that wiped the moon from the dead man's temple. Yes, your childhood now a fable of fountains. Strange soul of the space in my veins, I must search for you, small and rootless. Love of always, love of never! Oh, yes! I want. Love. Let me be. Don't cover my mouth, you who search for Saturn's seed in the snow or castrate animals in the sky, clinic and jungle of anatomy. Love, love. Childhood of the sea. Without you your warm soul fails to understand you. Love, a doe's flight through the endless breast of whiteness. And your childhood, love, and childhood. The train and the woman filling the sky. Not you, not I, not air, not leaves. Yes, your childhood now a fable of fountains.