Harbors

 

 

I speak of nothing.
My tongue of gondolier nights
has lost itself into starless skies
imbued in the
language of quietude.
I only hiss.Sometimes,
like serpents festering with transgression
or as kettles and pots sigh in hushed steam
in their despair to be something else.


I weave this poem for you
from the thorny uncertainty of language
in which I cannot tread on about flowers
or springs. My heart, in familiar
apprehension of octopuses, is filled
with dusks. And I hue my thoughts about you.

All my thoughts
which halt to a single point
without volume or circumference.
A needle point of you.
In which there is no poetry,
except the ruffled borders of life.
And I look at it as one wanders over an
old abandoned pallete.

And sometimes in it, colors open,
Words dance in the nights of Kekexili
In the colors of Renoir and I see
your reflections as a dream
seen on a foggy misty morning of Monet
or as a twilight harboring the dusks of morocco,
the leaning glades of savannah in the wind,
in the rhythm of a old wooden boat
that rocked lazily on the tides of hoogly
on a winter morning, as you stood by me.