Morocco Sand
a poem
At night, the clock sends out the remaining minutes, and the illusion of youth brings them back during the day.
Melted clock hands and numbers burn my palms and, through them, a view of you while you play.
In a thin dress, you pull your fingers out of invariant subspaces, and you look at me without blinking with bright eyes.
The whirlwind of music from the podium lifts us up
and throws us naked on your threshold with woven limbs.
A dance of confused touches and lost years
on a yellowed piece of paper.
*
In the loneliness kitchen, kisses and hands on the body,
your sigh on my face
while the fingers are in the honey box.
In the corridors of the mathematics of proof
destructive sub-personalities
they distract us from the truth.
*
Blue pool water and grass
full of flowers and pollen-intoxicated bees.
Swimming makes you smile,
while the sting creates a spasm on the face
and throws a bowl full of cherries into the water.
Fear of dragon bites,
he took the white knees far away;
to wait for a long-distance call on the payphone.
*
Meeting on the street and smiling,
the awakening of an old desire that has been simmering.
You are the queen of swords;
with a look into the distance,
we are there behind the distant hills.
Waiting for dawn on the sand dune,
hugged and wrapped in a white cloth.
We spend our days walking on the sands of Morocco
nights of passion and tenderness
are on the stone roofs of houses that look like beehives,
while the fresh night breeze blows from the desert.
