A convincing image of communication / de t a c h / where there are patterns /
in place of saying / something real.
It dates back;
A sad lineage after sad lineage after sad lineage of those who never allowed themselves
the pleasure of free reign, like cultural mantras: to (the) end (we hold) the rigidity of
our own verbal and corporal
At least we have this; we say that because this drama is ours:
I mean to say, no one else is imagining this to such intimacy and detail except for you and me.
You found us where we ate / Is it a memory? / Or observing a pattern?
You saw us eat here? Was it soup?
Were we dreaming?
What would you have wanted to eat?
I said we were eating from teetering and content hearts.
I said one day we sat submerged to bathe in shades scribbled in with grace,
putting to the world lines, rich to our eyes, colors peeking from beneath; Rays of
orange, and yellow went first both later buried to thick grainy lines sprouting purple,
brown and green: a landscape is
“Your hand your wrist on my arm / swaying a slow elbow / crooked a bit in dizzy breath.
Two skin tones in the dark distinguish our bodies / Are we communicating / is fleeting
and cause from heart to cheeks, are we fruit trees standing against the sunshine?
Our fingertips slow to caress, arms jut and leaves shade umbilicaly dangling gifts.
With hunger we reach up / are the branches open / in this tree?
We would wonder about the fruit: Are they content? Their animated flesh full of seed
and juice / their touch deliciously cold and smooth:
Are they growing up while dropping down like on a string?
Light green by day / pale blue by moon light
As if they are waiting for us, we reach–
But between you, and me and between the whole grove of chismoso mango trees;
Was it realy listening? Did anyone enter or did we allow each other in?
Did we go where we said we would go? To find it somewhere and
decide together where we wanted
Darling (as if without inhibitions and just a sultry whisper loaded and protected under
a knitted slew of secrets between us!)
Do we want to share ourselves with each other so close to what hurts this tender?
Are we nourshing soil enough from within ourselves / for planting and growing /
for growing or sustaining work made love?
After seasoning through quiet storm / I am imagining / roots that hold a place for us,
We decided too feed ourselves? / Meals came from? and springing from / I said that I
don’t care if our shit is the most richly composted and beautiful dirt /
but will we grow a little in just
a little earth?