Dan Enache Poet Free verse

From My Tinder Hat

From My Tinder Hat

From my tinder hat I want to pull out my luminous hand,
my beautiful hand with scars asleep on skin like long shadows,
which can transform into a bulb that lights or into a sweet song,
ready for gesticulation—a dance of fingers—waiting for the signal
that always comes like a locomotive mechanic its slow departure,
a woman departed with her blood red as wine, warm as hearth fire,
like a musical suitcase full of melodies—the orchestra playing softly
in places where each poplar is a flute whistling in the evening wind.

I plowed with the train's fingernails the iron furrow—the gleaming steel rails,
I looked with open eyes at the sprawling landscape—seen clearly in light,
I greeted the cold shingle forehead of the cool summer houses
in which you sleep deeply, in which you wash with clear and pure water,
puzzled toward the magnetic walls that attract everything slowly to them
I stretched my lips like large petals—soft and velvety
so I could kiss the open palm of the stretched days—the warm hand of touch.

Here your thighs can touch any chair, touching it always with care,
the rings can receive in their hollow any labor heavy as mountain stone,
your black hair is a living bird—a harpsichord playing high notes
and when you comb it I can smell the fragrant trace of game present
in the forest of powerful aromas—the sweet perfume that fills the dense air.

I want your thin dresses—the dresses of fine silk and soft leather,
the lace dresses—of hips full of fingers with whole hands,
the hems of your dresses disturb my quiet room—its orderly space
and every evening after nine o'clock at night—the warm summer darkness
your beautiful dress elegantly greets my light tinder hat.

If you had brains of transparent glass you would understand everything clearly,
if you had a neck of aromatic tobacco you would become cheerful—singing joy,
so every closed closet has a polished funnel—shining with cleanliness
for the sweet melancholies of your full orifices—the void that breathes,
so every lit candelabra can illuminate you with dancing flames
like fine velvet fabric soft—delicate blue silk.

So every green field can caress you along the line of your straight spine
like a tender lover with fingers of bluebirds—birds flying lightly,
so every open window can frame you seeing you in the light
like a silent frame in the turning of the evening—in the night of deep darkness.

From my light tinder hat I want to pull out my hand coming out,
my present hand—its smooth scars are hills of fine skin.

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