My ear attends to you,
as a mother hears in her sleep.
To a feverish child, she whispers
as I bend over you.
At the skin, my blood calls out to
your heart, my whole sky craves
an island of tenderness.
My rivers tilt towards you.
And I am drawn downwards
as stairs slope into a garden,
or some willow’s bough falls
straight down, away from the milestone.
Stars are pulled to the earth
and laurels on graves won
with suffering, attract banners.
An owl longs for a hollow.
And I lean down
towards you with muscle and wing,
as if to a grave stone,
(I put the years to sleep)
my lips seek yours like spring.
κλικ!
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