a song in the flesh

my body on the threshold in blossom

climbing to fruit

and you know how much doubts have perched and will perch deeply in the pulp

whenever you come to this forest of string guitars transforming women into perspiration of indefinite perfume, whenever a nude happens in the page, I wish the end of labors and landscapes. 

I know my nouns will spin through the firstness of my wind, more diverse than hearts. Winds cross the library, cross your chest, still insisting to submerge between waves of symbols. 

It must be possible to believe in rivers and in tongues.

from dust to verbs, within dawn, touch the infinite dreaming princesses.

Who is the dreamer-in-me that hides my eastern tears?

Who ties my losses as though my doors were the beginning? 

Who speaks before the young nonsense? who thinks of roses and petals of flesh growing and suffering in the ways of my becoming Song?