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