Sudden stars tossed on the raiments
of a red evening,
resting in the desert air.
Woman, talk to me;
your words are thunder…
Cloudlings vault low
over the belly of a dreaming earth.
Remember this:
your hair is flowering grass
bending on a draught moon.
When you leave in the morning,
remember this:
my eyes are hewn rock
baking under streams of sunlight.
Chateau Margaux
1947
slithers down the stem,
from the bowl,
left on the rim
by your lips;
red-satin
below your brown-swirl eyes,
mirroring constellations
above quai de la Tournelle
and the Seine
in silken ebony.
Lights! Spread before us
like so many gems
inside a store we would not
be allowed…
The glow mixes with
steam,
smoke,
coffee vapours,
sprigs of rosemary,
candle wax.
The night so pure,
yet with not enough air for words;
and the silence is broken by a cloud-drop
making your cigarette
hiss in its long filter.
Let us retire to our homes;
for have you kissed someone in the rain?
No?
Nor I.
Litany_of_the_Lost 