I. The Hands Speak
This is how your albino hauteur
dangles,
so bright it is perverse.
***
Free of wrinkles,
with a dazzling
insolence of forms
you rush your dream
to the crest,
escorted
by golden rays.
You flirt almost always
in profile,
and the sun
tosses you missiles
of yellow lust,
alters your color,
trying to confine you
to its dome.
***
And the other acrobats,
stupid paper ballerinas,
clear away their final pirouettes
so you can show off
your lone, aerial
luxury in flight.
***
But night will come.
There’s little time left.
And your sophisticated,
cynical beauty will pour down
false gold.
And you will fall to me,
artlessly.
No comments:
Post a Comment