by Joseph Immel quiet, she does not know the pain of falling; shh, touch her skin, and tell, about her lips that I love, the shy lips she saves for me, and she opens unaware of bitterness, blessing the summer heat, fountains tiptoe and gushing hot springs; she opens, jewels and water wrap themselves in ribbons and the water bubbles surface, release her perfumes and ink spills, like a flower quenched with the pressure of silent water, of an empty stomach filled with flowers, and I misunderstood the beauty of red, like the waterfall, when she became a rose floating in a river of tears, a grape crying, when the red sea became a woman. Melancholy with nostalgia over a tender embrace of blood, me, and your tears falling, and the delicate plum, her heart, tying the lumps in my throat, that touch the memory, of the beauty of her opening. |