***
We’d rest on the floor
afterwards.
As a leaf curl on my stomach
your palm
would lie,
my eye would cascade down
a seashell belly-button
of yours.
My fingers, as sharpened pencils,
millimetre by millimetre,
would mark the bars
and music notes
over your wave-veins,
my poem would tiptoe its way
over your wrists-boats,
my melting mouth,
crammed with unsayable,
would probably articulate
your surname-
made of hands-
in an inarticulate happiness.
A white tunic would contrasts your skin –
a white sail on your skinny ship –
in the sunlight it would again
be completely transparent.
I ‘d feel your trembling Garda spirit,
I’d swim over your calm lake,
your hand-bridges would span over
the balustrades –
my ribs,
your pedestrian lips
would walk along the evening square
– my back,
when a Ducati rider
would emerge
on the serpantine of my eyebrows
to close my eyes and drive me
into the cul-de-sac lakeworld
where
we’d rest on the floor
in an inarticulate happiness .
