Fragments 10

I imagine certain moments, your hair in waterfalls

thundering from a fountain that was never built,

your blouse torn apart like a bee sting that had

pierced into marble, opal, gold or silver idols:

the poets of Rome did not

have such as you,

to make a stone as living as your lips

______________________________________________

your impure curse brews a stare that sets old forests

scorching upon the leaves that hang on dead men's trees

______________________________________________

I lick up your ashes in the manner of those red carpets of empire

that exist as if great evil did not dwell in bright-lit halls.

I watch the children of a fruit tree murdered in the daylight.

I see flowers that your mother places (lovingly) wither on your cairn,

and I wish to place them on a pyre so that you would not persist.

_________________________________________________

The imprint of your hands in dark-skied memory,

A thumbprint in sand waiting for the moon.

_________________________________________________

Oh come now, crocodile, to weep such tears

As if I had not seen your sharpened teeth.