95 When the morning dew erases the edges of things And things are touching each other without their skin -- I can see how water turns into roots of the tree And drinks the wine of the bark, that has dried in eves, How the green is growing into the blue of my breath, That fills the sky from the north to the east -- with you: And my tongue is wet with names -- from the south to the west -- To say your name on the language of morning dew, To transcend the scabs of borders between drying things, To touch your tongue with my tongue -- with a dew of blue, And to drink your wine of eyes with the spice of the eves, The bane of nights that are nameless in black recluse.


Confined Verse
Collected Poems