Are you the stone of a fruit, dear soul? Mandorla, fetus
in white coffee? Your eyes are flames,
the dark grains of my ladies.
Shut the slot if you can’t watch it.
Take a break.
My love is a holdup lifting you slowly,
slowly, so the air doesn’t run out.
The tears you never confessed to fell
into soup bowls, in a Slovenian
village inn. The shawl was
green, red, from Kashmir,
We lost it then.
But you are cube in me,
little light burning endlessly on the grave.
I watched the ascent, the food,
your blood pulsing on different continents.
Tunnels in parallel worlds
In the fire we saved
the sizzle of your tennis shoe. I pasted you up
with resin, with tokens, so you could breathe
only through your rhomboids.
I shoed you or
cleared the sky when I
starved you, when I taped up
How much longer will I be cut into pieces?
Loaded among wooden logs.