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Love Jungle Apocalypse III
I awake amnestic in the puzzle.
Three full moons
cover my naked face.
Where has the day gone
the one
that took me back
to the undiscovered forest
of early touches?
Here is a mouthful of silent screams
never grown to maturity
in those chasms of emptiness.
Here is a library full of roads
ready to take us
to the hinterlands of understanding
where galaxies of sense and laughter
offer endless palettes filled with light.
You who knew me before time
when the oceans did not yet
feel their immensity,
when the warm blood of mammals
was only a vague idea
buried in the heart of a seed,
will you speak to me
now that the wars have ended
now that my hands
have colored themselves with everything
and all the fine books
have been swallowed and passed?
I’ll gather for you
a bouquet of relics
broken watches, paper crosses
and portraits
painted on the head of the bed.
I’ll sing for you
the ancient songs of luxury and languor
like a flock of hammocks
gently circling the sea
or a bed of roses
listening through the night
for the first bird of dawn.
I’ll dance with you
as the gypsies dance
ravaging the earth
with impossible meters and movements
heedless of design or purpose
dances only beautiful and true
wherein the blood boils
and the spittles and sweats
of the lakes where we floated
on the back of a swan
ferment in the heat of bridges burning.
How could I awake without a garden
to show me the way to the future,
without plants furled like torsos
anxious for the sun’s caresses?
Too many nights have passed in silence.
I prefer the sound of the river
that gurgle of a baby
leading us back to the tree in the meadow.
Too many shades of orange
have made their way to the mountains,
too many blues have sunk from sight.
Why disturb the purity of darkness?
I remember too well
the mishandling of treasure,
the daily feast
attended by a host of phantoms,
how we sometimes mistook
our battles and revelries
for the sound of a symphony,
how the earth cracked and split
and scattered our tattered flesh
and the shards
of all our carefully crafted vessels.
Now you will find me
stumbling like a newborn hippopotamus
down a boulevard somewhere
laughing at the scars on my shield,
mumbling questions about the ecstasies of dolls.
I will carry a fountain in my hand
where your tears and mine will mingle,
a red balloon on a string
will follow overhead.
And there along the invisible sidewalks
with your chorus of smiles
your incense from uncharted territories
all the gestures you learned in my absence
with the music you took
straight from strings
your eyes filled with scenes
from the histories of heroes,
there with beauties
you have etched on my eyelids
and the magic lamp you gave me
as that final gift
of pleasure and mystification
you will bring me the world
once again.
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