Eve of sand

ad absurdum, my Love. . . 

this energy of roses and roses of roses in words and knives

I touch your poetry your tragedy your Language of circles of rivers down well down the song where naked None kisses None. . . You, rose of Nothing, rose of None... blooming more than Being and hurting the rock off mixed bloods. . .

boiling sand of the desert in the tongue 

and your womb blows, Eve.

where is the end of It? which skin strata are still 

quiet and wet?

what is humus and what is God in my syntax

my naked syntax? my deep broken naked syntax 

of blindness and necessity?

as dark as the poem where the veils burn on thy womb, Logos non-Ab-solute! drink my salty mouth, I, none, You, none, the same catastrophe of mountains rolling within our secret sands . . . questioning poems that hallucinate The intimacy of Open place of Origin towards the same Abyss . . . touch my womb, thy poem of None