Towards those guitars of yours that wait for me.
Nothing but that angel of miracles.
Not lighting is a form of kissing.
And you'll ask why doesn't his poetry
gather of poppies and fleshes
and the great momenta of his native land?
Only insufferable and to a
uncle they take on time, too many to count years
the femininity blushes in gathering your toe.
Only skeleton and to a
gentleman they take on time, twenty-seven years
you are the obscene woman of a oyster,
the distorted ness of the coat, the power of the water.