I see
a pair of breasts attached to a chair.

I dreamed my violin in its case was a child
lying in a coffin.
never have I wanted to run away so badly;
I saw a light behind me and knew there was
someone searching through a dense garden.
Aaron, take my marble flowers, take them home
in November, wrapped in white ribbons for the
pretty king; and the royal court looks for your blossoms,
looks for your blossoms, looks for the past, looks for
the naked boy isolated by time.
                                                                                  I see
a pair of breasts attached to a chair.

                                    he is behind dark twigs where
transparent birds perch, there
the breast of one universe is offered to an infant of another.
oh yellow leaves that fall on dark brown hair, hair
falling over the back of a chair . . .

ah, Aaron, suspended between two towers, you
give me everything but tenderness,
blue eyes silent above the flames reaching out of
the green elegance of the forest,
you withhold yourself continually.
small birds rise, copper-colored in the smoke
to fly over cold stones far away.
I sit naked in a chair surrounded by a circle
of fire. You have left me unapproachable.
the world and its clouds move under you . . .

Aaron, open the door to a million pearls

                                    into a room with a large mound of
spices in the middle of the floor, an ancient
temple room where long fingernails thrust out from the
ceiling and walls . . . there, people tell you to die.
there, Aaron hates you when you would love him.
I remember his eyes on the face inside you; I remember
the distorted genitals; I remember the child in the mirror.

                                                                                  I see
a pair of breasts attached to a chair.
                                                                                  I try to be inside
you and feel your neediness. I try to live with
ambivalences. I walk near a series of wells beside
a wall and see the beautiful sneering children who
carry their pouches of grievances before their faces; and,
still Aaron, I feel your crying teeth in my back.

Aaron of the orange trees,
not enough dreams and fantasies, not
enough time for rituals, nor for dawns
and other miracles . . .
when I am with you, something
ruptures, I am afraid.
run down the hill where the dead undress.

what does it matter?

Aaron saw the woman removing her strange gown
of silence.