it’s an abstract season

like nomadic wayfarer i explore your soma

your cries and whispers have no orthography in the sexual grammar

Still naked still idol of many trade winds

breathless

i write with broken silences ..

my pen drips blood into your amoral heart

your blue lustre made of sweat and

pearl. your face:

an Indian moonlight of Ithaca

i repeat the ritual

Banished from sin and the sacred

your eyes blue are the veins

of the Aegean stream of consciousness

as black breasts pillows of atonement

your wave of desire come and go

glinting the foam’s long gray frieze

hands are made of broken corrals

arms the coves of false confessions

Give me the shadow of a purple kiss