We came out of the gardenand there were brides in the trees.You faked a birdsong.I had something to say to your motherbut the ancestors are as inconsiderateas they are deaf.
To the house of sliding panelswe rode optimisticallyside by side, downingthe vinegary local wine.Our anxious friendshad become famous.Some favoured men; others, women.They set our places at the table.
It was like a dream of masturbation:you dipping the artichoke in melted butter.I wanted to droolif that was what it meant to be wild,but I could only comfort youas you comforted the wall.
Don't close my eyes when I die.I want my body rubbedwith white sand, the strongest teasimbibed at my grave.I can settle for little:a calmness after crying,honey for the throat.Because my list is endless--
