Under the Violet Light
Under the Violet Light
Under the violet light, the thought makes its nest with ease,
and time runs down my temples, like honey into abysses.
The child in me breathes inside green bells,
the father in me returns with steps of sweet smoke.
Cities with shoulders of glass wander through my iris,
and the moon writes an alphabet of algae on my eyelids.
I hear how silence rocks itself in electric leaves,
and the heart beats in the heavens with drums made of snowfall.
I gather myself in the fluid blue mirror of evening,
like a dream fish caught inside a net of song.
The old man in me becomes an infant of light,
and weeps with stars beneath his tongue, in tears of amber.
On the street made of blood, streetlamps with lavender hair
weave me, melancholy, a house out of steam and sound.
My memories pass through like well-behaved comets,
birds with the taste of noon return into my palms.
And everything is a circle, but the circle is a thin spiral:
I climb and descend through myself, with open eyes.
In my chest I carry a sea of astral teas, bitter,
and with every swallow a name is born.
A bell calls me from the grass with nerves of opal,
a shadow holds me by the hand, velvet, arriving late.
I tell myself: I am a bridge of flesh between two miracles,
and I pass, without hurry, through the world — a smoke that loves.
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