por carracuca

you are my bread

and the hairline


of my bones

you are almost

the sea

you are not stone

or molten sound

I think

you have no hands

this kind of bird flies backward

and this love

breaks on a windowpane

where no light talks

this is not time

for crossing tongues

(the sand here

never shifts)

I think


turned you with his toe

and you will


and shine

unspent and underground

Diane di Prima