Green orange yellow tides brought her here.
The art most ignominious, most temperate.
A principle of love
born from the rape of the air by his song.
Like a frog, incapable of turning its head,
the feline reflects in its pupils
the untiring undulation:
An echo with the rest of that first music.
It was believed that she waited on the edge of a note
to seize a similarity.
Bits of strings, twigs,
scraps of shiny paper, smooth stones.
Regretful gardens in plastic cases,
a pair of gloves, and two hands.
A hand is a sheet of flesh.
And she is a type of him
standing on the crescent moon,
a brilliant egg of light
against a square.
The square is a type of globe
that she travels around
place to place, with a box,
the size of her confinement.
A stone box and bleached fluid
to overflow the room that holds a word.
The word is a type of bird,
a bird mended by the middle line,
joining the sky of her mouth
to the top of her tongue.
Her tongue. A type of wing.
Wet wing. Tangled tongue
trying to reach the navel
in a dance of azure invocation.
In silence, their remnants
Distant whispers of danger
from the shout of her absence.
For absence is a type of her,
making me look for him.
He is a type of me.