I dare not speak its name -

�������������������������a seed crystal

that would tumble ions into solid form
free no more to assume
the fluid curves of each new container,

���������������an epithet

to determine forever its form,
build a skeleton from cranium to tarsus
out of words and whispers.

�����Guard the velvet throat of the orchid,
���������������leave its whispers unfettered

to resonate with the murmurs of eons
carving sastrugi into snow,
the feathered wing-ridges of days to come.

������������������������������Speak words

that prowl the city over dragon lines,
range continents and reshape dunes in effigy,
sculpt stone into the arch of a back -

these words, these whispers,

����������a confluence of spit and seas
�����where we are destined to meet.

In this gorgeous dream,
heads nod - calla lilies in time
to the cadence of an underground train.

Your fingers test the give of my skin
like that of the mango
plump with ready Caribbean sunshine
and sweet turpentine, a gift
chosen for the moment -

��������trust also in the interstices

of our days and nights,
spaces that intervene, rest
on kitchen windowsills to ripen;

�������������������������feel my touch

in stars, in light aligned by clouds,
at once conversant and reverent.


� 2002 by PJ Nights
Previously published at ERWA