It is nothing but a breath, more full of moisture than crying,
a liquid, a sweat, an oil that has no name,
a sharp motion,
taking shape, making itself thick,
the water is falling
in slow drops
toward the sea, toward its dry ocean,
toward its wave without water.
I look at the wide summer, and a loud noise coming from a barn,
wineshops, cicadas,
towns, excitements,
houses, girls
sleeping with hands over their hearts,
dreaming of pirates, of conflagrations,
I look at ships,
I look at trees of bone marrow
bristling like mad cats,
I look at blood, daggers and women"s stockings,
and men"s hair,
I look at beds, I look at corridors where a virgin is sobbing,
I look at blankets and organs and hotels.
I look at secretive dreams,
I let the straggling days come in,
and the beginnings also, and memories also,
like an eyelid held open hideously
I am watching.
And then this sound comes:
a red noise of bones,
a sticking together of flesh
and legs yellow as wheatheads meeting.
I am listening among the explosion of the kisses,
I am listening, shaken among breathings and sobs.
I am here, watching, listening,