morning love

Tapis Volant by Claude Verlinde | The Shade of the Mango Tree by Luiz Bonfá

Sundays after loveflying are to flap without wings:
a gift for flare, you wonder, and it regains you all of a sudden
by touching the intimacies of what you uninvent and make delirious

the verb “splendor”, for example, you give it abilities of not denominating
tic-tacs, so you fill it with such flimsy, subtle, even quixotic inclination
to be a violet, a violin…dancing and being danced as to moonlight… 

“the reality of love,” someone howls, “ah, to splendor the reality of love...”
omnipresenting it, so that a red a blue a green aroma pervades the bed
can you realize or will you hallelujah it? — oh, such senses of intimacy, sibilant…

your sense, your sense of taste is refined
to the point you’d drop me on your tongue
traveling me, desire-upon-desire, like a river…

so is exquisite your sense of heart-beating
the way you accommodate clouds and volcanoes in your mouth
disproportions and sunrises, bringing me off, replenishing…

even your sense of sight, your sense of hearing,
of word, of silence, of reverie…ah, your sense of touch…
waterfalls between thighs my whole body, eating me up so unconcentrically…

you see? mind you, or simply finger-imagine me,
verbs like “splendor”, so to speak, they wilderness and tree plants
copper galaxies, graffiti a thousand alleys, and firefly noons
they cranberry horizons, and they granola each waking-with
that’s how a morning love, like this you offer, this ours,
a morning love that dewdrops daisies, like this Sunday’s — you, too, skin?
that’s how it can be splendored with a sense of intimate eternity


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