GARDEN IN A METROPOLIS

I.

The rain grows.

It echoes under the trees.

The tick-trickling stream

whispers a magnitude to the ears.

The air hums and

rubber lances swish

going down,

down underground.

The rain grows.

On the endless silence of man.

No god no soul

under the curtain of trees.

Above us is the river,

might and ocean

– there sail kayaks and rafts.

Above us is the river

– Ophelia on three wings

bathes herself

and rolls slowly to one side.

Our mud-caked journey

down a narrow path.

The rain grows.

The boles strike at my heart.

– You sniff out my every step.

The boles strike at my heart.

You are a wild animal,

suffocate me

but lose

if I lay down

on the ground.

II.

Familiar tigers in heat in cages

– nearby but nowhere.

Native religious ceremonies hidden under trees.

The trucks of the city ascend the sky.

Through the narrow glade

I beware of you

but call to you

in silence.

Your eyes those of the bird

say:

– do something! –

And I rush into the greenery,

never look at you again.

III.

We tiptoe

into green disasters.

Your eyes wet.

Dig up out of each other

the cries of the animal.

The rain grows

under the leaf crowns.

I stretch your lips.

You colour my cheeks.

Drink the fear in my eyes.

Who are you

Who are you

IV. Tongue and Silence

i.

You sprinkle sawdust

on my silence.

On my wet dripping wet

silence

sawdust.

ii.

Your tongue,

long long,

washes me onto dry

land, into a valley:

          and everything is merry

          with us.

          You speak

          and I.

iii.

I pour from my cunt

the dripping goldveins of kings:

          behold,

          that you disappear,

          my friend,

          behold you disappear,

          my bird friend.

iv.

I scan your cavity

and try to hear

your heart stir.

        You are the silence

        in heat, and full

        of shouts made of smooth velvet.

v.

My heart beats

in your palm

and only there.

It bursts!

in your palm

– only there.

     *

Anoint my sleep

and breast

with your tongue

and promises

of cautious

fingers.

     *

And praise me!

say:

– you do well –

and praise me!

into sleep

into sleep

with you:

– that I do not walk

woodlands

searching for you,

                           with you –.

Come close,

take my head

too!

give my

thought a hand,

touch my tenderness,

and praise me!

and permit me

to sleep

under you.

vi.

I touch a murmur, and

move slightly.

You lay me

a life buoy.

Murmur, and a skinny

cable

quivering

and still within earshot

– a whimper.

     *

Birds kept vigil

over us

and still I wake

inside you.

And follow you

to mountains and

home pastures

hidden under a wing.

But only

for a brook’s babble

and hollow,

tongue and throat.

vii.

Your tongue, longer than

another, washes me ashore.

That I be able to speak and

utter mud from my lips.

     *

Pitch-black solariums

of an ancient morning blush

and bubbles, soap bubbles

burst at your window

and you wait

lying with burned fingers:

        ancient, drudging

        candlelight

        and locked doors.

That I be able to speak

and your windows be decorated

with vines and blue

spruce and you weave

me in nets and

undress,

caress my

slimy flesh and lick

and the heat fog of your

house wipes out the slog in

the puddles of oblivion and

in the vigilance of morning:

fingerprints

and words.

viii.

Go out and defend myself.

First a fence post,

then string,

barbed wire, nails

and more sticks.

– This is our

place, here

we were –.

Send a message

and after you, a horse

       come and see

       our story

       a fort

       above ground

ix.

See I hang

upright on a cliff

and my poem,

a whittled note,

and my poem,

a paper airplane,

a boat made of paper,

       it floats

       on a pond

       by your

       lodgings