Love Poem @ 70
We walk on tiptoe round the garden,
peeling free the sunlight cloud by cloud.
Sometimes, the heart is a sacrifice of feathers,
bound with blood to an ornate altar.
this rock cold against my chest.
centuries of stone carvings
come alive in your face.
If our arms were to meet
around these columns
of sun-warmed flesh and stone,
what would become of us?
Beneath my skin, the woad
flows as blue as this evening sky.
Your skin is bronzed
in the warmth of my gaze.
Yellow light bends
low in the fields below us,
each darkening pool
a warrior fallen
beneath time’s scythe.
The moon paints a delicate circle.
Its great round eye opens out
above the rooftops,
a cathedral window
opening on the sky.
Tonight it bears
the wisp of an eye lid
carved from cloud.
Your teeth are diadems of whiteness
aglow in your face.
We tie shadows to our heels
and dance in triumph
to the village music
sounding in street and square.
Daylight bends itself round rock
and turns into shadow.
We flourish in blocks of flickering flames.
Dreaming new selves from roots and branches,
we clasp each creation with greedy fingers.
Dark angel bodies with butterfly wings,
our shadows have eloped together.
They sit side by side holding hands
at a table in the central square.
Church bells gild the barrio’s rooftops.
Our fingers reach to the skies and hold back light.
We draw shadow blinds to shut out the sun.
Night fills us with stars and a sudden sadness.
We dream ourselves together in a silent movie,
closed flesh woven from cobwebs
lies open to a tongue-slash of madness.
The neighbor’s dog wakes up on the azotea.
He barks bright colors as dawn declares day
and windows and balconies welcome the sun.
Can anyone see the dew-fresh flowers
growing from our tangled limbs?
Your fingers sew a padlock on my lips:
We listen to the crackle of the rising sun.