Josefa de Obido-O Cordeiro Pascal
Joseph Noel Paton 1821-1901
Summer breaks its face on my arm.
I can’t remember how your mouth
Felt on mine. How your hand was
When I put my lips on your fingertips.
My heart dances on my spine, fooling
Me into believing that love has a name
That sounds like yours but ends before
I can reach out and touch your hips,
Your lips, it, as they said, trips me
Past the dream house built of pale
Moonlight and forever and a day.
Up among the concordance of moon,
sun and our loving, bop style in mouth
Jazz explaining to each other from song
To song how wild this thing is, wind,
The keys ripping past; candles made of
Fireflies and mission bells, tearing
Sheets of song into tiny pieces. Oh yes how
And howl, spurl myself digningly, plutridly
Fornicoulted, intensely exploding in charcoal
Mouth bar-b-que laughing. There is
No further town we can be found in.
Every stop on your skin unveils the
Brisk night, irresponsible, tales told
By the blind about how the hands
Know the name, the name of all the rains,
Their particular voice, their night thoughts,
On sidewalks, opened at last, no streetlights,
No mouth of song following. I touch
Your crazy traffic and burn acetylene yellow,
Pure green. Aircraft land in the middle of summer.
My skin stretches, explodes and contains all
The mysterious rainbows from which we reconstruct
The language of all the endless nights of our youth.