The Perfections of Her Face

I need a chemical change, some sort of alchemical miracle
to make me politically smaller, urgently a nomad
of your palmistry

by which I mean: sleeping in the infinite desert
of your hand.

(There’s got to be something deeply wrong with you if you
wake up and death isn’t the first thing to cross your mind.)

In the morning the room is
a constellation of guns aiming
at my nakedness I’ve been
getting naked all night

like a London mood,
bruised by a cloud
painting with half a lung
the perfections of her face.

The other voice,
that never leaves my head, that lives in my head
and eclipses every other, even the one I speak with,
tells of you—

(the horizon wears your signature
autographed, the sky)

In the uncharted regions of my lines, in the scars of the pavement,
in the interstices between teeth
some thing frenetic
is getting louder:

anything that doesn’t howl

put the pluperfects of my life to the torch;
revolutionize the Summer
of my world.

the perfections of her face

Kandinsky – Around the Line