To Angela (concluded)

Death-song for Angela

Wind-chariots of love

white or melting beneath the skin,

stations lost in midnight peace or rebellion,

Wild storm beneath your gown

and the crazy, green silence

of lonely hospital rooms

Angela,

stay a while here with me

in this land of pink and sleep.

Violin in your sleep,

softly we stand,

our fingers quietly kissing in sand and light.

I could be your little orange town

as you summon a magi in sleep,

I could be your dream.

A town in the skies,

all the roads here lead to sleep,

and little paraffin birds spread out their wings

in water and dreams.

White eyes among nude petals

thirst for the fragile beak of the sky,

your lips carve music in the clouds.

Once again,

our lips will waltz in touch

as I hold you in me

in this city of love.

Angela,

You shall touch me again

in love or sleep,

as the piano will find a beat

along the wounded strings of your heart.

Touch and angel lust,

your voice wild across the winter night

in my blue telephone,

Won’t you touch my lips

with a song or a kiss?

Won’t you cry,

my mad rain lover?

Blue sea-horses diving in your eyes,

fortissimo in your breast,

we lie down and shiver

beneath the porcupine breath of the sky.

Your eyes in my eyes,

your kisses fractured along the liquid, orange throat

of the lemonade evening,

here we are, lying down

amidst the sound and the city

in our little, paper-boat across the skies.

Glory of harmony in your starry laughter,

wet roses in your molten copper voice,

my finger runs along the wild black waves of your hair

like Neptune’s seas.

Beauty in the piano land,

mist and lovers beside the river,

your lips travel time

and spill ancient folklore of love.

Send me the fragrance of your breath

and some quatrains hidden in snow

as we remember old men leaning out of windows

in the December sun.

Death beside the ocean

in the purple carriage of winter,

your body worn in time and beauty

will sway like a wild flower in last ecstasy.

Dear Angela, my love,

the moon in her white gown, shall not know

what it is to wan inside a lover’s last sigh;

while the trees, the wind and light

will a build an epitaph for our kiss.

Our hands entwined in love,

our clocks melting down our thighs,

the rainbow will give rise to a new time.

Our faces and naked touch returning

to the soul of brown God

in the white lanes of sleep

leading to Brahma’s feet.

White sheets, white unslept pillows, white feet

and white song of parakeets rising like war

in this afternoon air of silence and radiance.

Your letters are little holy ruins

that make monuments for the ants

in rain; your voice anoints with joy

Aurora’s glowing horses of dawn.

Last smoke in your eyes,

last smoke from the chimneys of earth,

the last song for my fingers.

Amidst this love,

this ambrosial lust for lilies

and music from the stars

the song of vultures on earth

and specimens of slow, brown decay,

Angela,

I must leave you again

amidst the poem and tower

in the clouds,

amidst the elves and white lanes of sleep,

my fingers still stroking

the wild sitar in your eyes at sunset.

Let our love run through valleys in sleep,

like bloodstreams through the harmonica.

Let our death-song come to an end

in this land of camphor and blue.