Salmon hands, Pacific hands, Pisces-born, there are flies in my sleep.
My emerald speaks in such soothing tongues, her eyes dance with lust, but I cannot keep her.
There must be some chains that keep my coins; I cannot reach them.
Each of your fingers is a stalk of fire.
My love for you is a new arithmetic. It knifes me with a smile.
The parade of hours knows only your name, but I am a pair of mirrored dice.
I am the martyr of damp sheets and trees peopled with whispering stars.
I am nailed to laughing truth and cannot street.
Tomorrow is a theater, a priest, a patricide, champagne.
Trapped inside my poem there is no voice, only the greenest breezes.
I love the storm tumbling inside me.
I’ll set a trap for patience.