Bernstein

I want to do to you
as the sunlight to the soles of the leaves
as the night to our sighs
before joy inebriates us to sleep.

I want to do to you
as birdsong, tossed recklessly to the arms of the sky
as the brook to the pebbles’ moss
furled at her feet.

I want to do to you
as the forgotten strand of hair to the skin
as the horizon laced to our deepest wish
galloping, galloping.

I want to do to you
as the murderous downpour to the
new-born petal
as the meteor
searing the flesh
of the violet night
as the beast to the virgin…

I am the thunder to your stars
I am the blossom
I am the rock.

I am the silence of your heartbeat
stilled by the temple of our love.

I am the fire to your fears
I am the church-bell to your devout ears.

I am the bud
thrusting to life
in your sunshine.

I am that moment:
precious
frozen green.

I am the valet to your needs.

I am you, you are me
in a pyre, the debris of our limbs
fanned by our blessed mournful cries.

I am the musk to your rose
pining my name when I have
gone
drinking my smell as it hovers
on in a languid mist
over your golden cornfield.

I am the joyous fly
cradled
in your silken
thread.

I am ocean
I am language
I the vagabond
scouring your territory
for I want to do to you:

as the butterfly to the heart of the child

as the salt to the pearls in her sea

as the candle to the night

as sunlight to Bernstein.

 

(from The Red Room)

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