When God whispers your body
to my seizing hands
he declaims
the romance
of orphan kids
and warm windows in the winter nights,
the romance
of cashmeres
and fingertips.
_Who is more protrusive
I wonder,
my fingertips, or the elegant fabric?
the senser or the sensed? _
He susurrates
the tales of mountains’ hives,
and the cattle of whiteness
in the cattle runs of kindness
on the milk isles,
and the yarns of attars and aromas!
He susurrates
the emblems of passion and oomph
and the savour of curves and tunes,
and the equal scales of beauty, justice and womanhood,
the penumbras
of thirsting and slaking,
lips and thirst,
tongues and
watering irrigations.
And God murmures about a serene music
unheard
that amplifies only in the bruised shade of your irises,
crystallized in the clarity of the virgin distances
so far away that just he knows
the secret provenance
of its sacred lecherous
headstreams.
