If I were a cinnamon peeler
I would ride your bed
and leave the yellow bark dust
on your pillow.
I could hardly glance at you
I buried my hands
in saffron, disguised them
over smoking tar,
helped the honey gatherers...
When we swam once
I touched you in water
and our bodies remained free,
you could hold me and be blind of smell.
You climbed the bank and said
this is how you touch other women
the grasscutter's wife, the lime burner's daughter.
And you searched your arms
for the missing perfume.
and knew
what good is it
to be the lime burner's daughter
left with no trace
as if not spoken to in an act of love
as if wounded without the pleasure of scar.
You touched
your belly to my hands
in the dry air and said
I am the cinnamon
peeler's wife. Smell me.
-----------------------------------------------
When I look away I forget what yellow means, But I can look again.
Sometimes there are something delusion oblivion.
I think you are suppose to put your fingers
inside the cold-hearted soul and feel heat.
Well, cant be sure. I cant be sure if what
I can feel is the heat or my imagination.
Nature never fools around. Just being decorative
Silence
, Gary
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