I seek a rhetoric of dreams,
the architecture of a breeze,
the museum in our breath—
Death is not the shadow of my mouth.
In the shadow of my mouth,
in the drenched black hair of the sun,
only almonds.
Diamond pulse of your wrist—
So too the prose of your eyes gleams,
meadows where the fallow fall,
sparrows and cotton flowers.
But underneath the body of the sun,
lumbering sideways, white camel clouds
come and compose brick plumes.
The habit of a ghost. East and West.
From the glaring currents of the city,
your fist opens on mounted stars,
silver squares and leaves cling
to the shawl of your matted chin.
APRIL 2008