"My muses are words that I read in the books, or words that are in me grabbing my being into their sheer power and my lovers are writers that I long to translate"
words have been lonesome stars
fallen off heavily clouded skies
their mysterious unutterable power
shockingly unexpected
yet nurturing
and come what may
their dust are cherished
and their ravenous lust
sails the waves of dreams
stranding on our bodies
Maya Angelou kind of bodies
bodies stalked
by "the loss of love and youth
and fire came raiding,
riding,
a horde of plunderers
on one caparisones steed,
sucking up the sun drops,
trampling the green shoots
of my carefully planted years."
but the words "carefully" and "planted years"
are mercilessly plundered
by the big surf of eroticism
that breaks through
the cruelties of time
upon those
Maya Angelou kind of bodies
when time comes to meet up
there will be no word at all
but skin and bodies
free of their dust
treading on eroticism
on a stage
set alive
by the librettos
out of untranslated books.
Flora
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