MORNING comes with such rapidity, purple plum hanging on sensuous boughs over my head, sweeping my shoulders, grazing my cheek, that I wonder one ever thinks of the going of evening.
I never talk of evening save to say of it, it is another kind of light.
Dark holes called doorways are for me only as places to go into where one watches the light of night from them.
Danse lAigleLhomme Rouge. As we watched him swinging and descending, we saw the dew of multiple benefactions dropping from his wings. In his beak he held fragments of the morning gathered from the lips of the red cliff nearest the sun of dawn.
How splendid he is, the lady from the fiord remarked. I stroked his wings and felt the warmth of the centuries on my hands.
Seaweeds made of torments rolling out of brown eyes.
Froth from the tossed wave. My bedlinen shall be made of it.
The window nearest my bed shall be made of forsaken cusps of the moon.
I shall sleep, with an orange, a lemon, and an avocado on a little table.
A silver plate with the red seeds of the pomegranate divested of their juices. A pampas plume shall wave with the breath of nightingales from a distant orchard. I think I could care for such a sleep. For once, at least.