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Cuatro VientosNo winds blow here today.There is nothing movingsave what I move for you.Not the burnt brown scrub or the prickled bush Not the ridged orange dust by parked car tyres.Not the chemist’s once hopeful silver squares,balled tissues measuring this week’s love.Only the dirty door as it opens, clicks shut.Grass blades crack under stumbling boots.Wet tongue creaks on open lips.If I turn my head maybe the ends of your mouth crease behind the lens.Bitten fingers lift layer after layer,(surprising white meets waiting air)pull petals from a yellow flower.Discarded glass shows gold-spun skies,starry seas. And then we are joinedin the crushing of ants and dreams…A plane circles in the blue.A bike goes round the bend.A parked car revs and rolls.Between bike and car there is time; for brick to coldly scratch breasts,for chains to clink on slatted fence,for rope to redden wrists.There is time for throatsto open out in birdsong.Four hearts blindly gripped.Four hands, more faces, crowdnumbered days behind all this.But there are only you and meto be sure that the horse walked blackly by, whinnying at your whip.S.
"S" ahora tiene un blog:www.sas.explore-the-world.net
Artísticas
ResponderEliminarimágenes...
Cuatro Vientos
ResponderEliminarNo winds blow here today.
There is nothing moving
save what I move for you.
Not the burnt brown scrub or the prickled bush
Not the ridged orange dust by parked car tyres.
Not the chemist’s once hopeful silver squares,
balled tissues measuring this week’s love.
Only the dirty door as it opens, clicks shut.
Grass blades crack under stumbling boots.
Wet tongue creaks on open lips.
If I turn my head maybe the ends
of your mouth crease behind the lens.
Bitten fingers lift layer after layer,
(surprising white meets waiting air)
pull petals from a yellow flower.
Discarded glass shows gold-spun skies,
starry seas. And then we are joined
in the crushing of ants and dreams…
A plane circles in the blue.
A bike goes round the bend.
A parked car revs and rolls.
Between bike and car there is time;
for brick to coldly scratch breasts,
for chains to clink on slatted fence,
for rope to redden wrists.
There is time for throats
to open out in birdsong.
Four hearts blindly gripped.
Four hands, more faces, crowd
numbered days behind all this.
But there are only you and me
to be sure that the horse walked
blackly by, whinnying at your whip.
S.
"S" ahora tiene un blog:
ResponderEliminarwww.sas.explore-the-world.net