don’t set me off to the bare night,
to the razor-edged moon of crossings,
to being nothing more than these lips that drink you.
I want to approach you from you yourself
with that movement that your body unleashes,
that it spreads beneath the wind like a black canvas.
I want to reach you from you yourself,
seeing you from your own eyes,
kissing you with that mouth that kisses me.
It cannot be that we are two, it cannot be
that we are
two." Julio Cortázar
Your eyes are too big for your face,
Your eyes are too big for the earth.
n. a kind of melancholic trance in which you become completely absorbed in vivid sensory details—raindrops skittering down a window, tall trees leaning in the wind, clouds of cream swirling in your coffee—which leads to a dawning awareness of the haunting fragility of life.
Give me the lover who yanks open the door
of his house and presses me to the wall
in the dim hallway, and keeps me there until I’m drenched
and shaking, whose kisses arrive by the boatload
and begin their delicious diaspora
through the cities and small towns of my body.
To hell with the saints, with the martyrs
of my childhood meant to instruct me
in the power of endurance and faith,
to hell with the next world and its pallid angels
swooning and sighing like Victorian girls.
I want this world. I want to walk into
the ocean and feel it trying to drag me along
like I’m nothing but a broken bit of scratched glass,
and I want to resist it.