For Eliot: A Glosa

 

My words rained over you, stroking you.

A long time I have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of your body.

Until I even believe that you own the universe.

I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells.

                      -Every Day You Play...

                                  From Veinte Poemas de Amor, 1924, Pablo Neruda,

                                                translated by W.S. Merwin

 

 

 

 

I kissed a lone hairy spider that talked alot and spoke of you.

You were the starry face that held me then slept like sunlight on

a thousand eyes, fatigued from firewatching.

You listened to boreal trees with me,

when men wanted to cut them down.

I lay down in the dew and came in dark low clouds until

my words rained over you, stroking you.

 

 

 

You were the mosquito that kissed my tired skin, we swelled.

I sailed on fossils looking for your tender moist thighs.

You dressed me in fields of petals when I stripped to protest.

I remember your rainbow arms.

A long time I have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of your body.

 

 

Now too urban one, you weave yogic tapestries

of consonants that we ride in stormy winds.

Your voice swims in my alpha waves unlocking voices of the dead.

Until I even believe that you own the universe.

 

 

I want to bathe you under my skirts of virga,

to breathe your fragrant genitals everyday.

I will sing you awake in the morning

like bohemian waxwings and doves.

I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells.