Estrella, you gypsy.
Crush your
red mouth
onto mine.
Below noon’s
bright gold,
i will bite that apple.
In the greeness of
the olive grove,
high on the hill,
there is an ancient
Moorish tower.
The colour of your
peasant flesh
your peasant flesh,
which tastes of honey
and the dawn.
You offer me in
your sunburnt body
divine food which
flowers the river bed,
and gives stars to the wind.
Brown light –
why do you give me
full of love,
your lillied womanhood,
and the murmur of your breasts?
Is it because of my body
full of sadness?
(oh my fumbling steps)
Did my song withered life
touch you with pity?
How can it be that
you have settled for my laments
over the sweaty thighs
of a peasant Saint Christopher,
handsome, and slow in love?
You are with me, Diana of pleasure.
You are Goddess of the Forest.
Your kisses smell of wheat
parched in summer sun.
Confound my eyes
with your song,
let your hair fall down
solemn, like a
cloak of shadow
on the meadow.
From your bloodied mouth,
Spit me a sky of love,
a dark star of pain
in its fleshy depths.
My Andalucian horse –
my Pegasus,
is captured by your eyes;
his flight will be of desolation
when their light dims.
I know you never loved me.
But i loved you –
for your
serious gaze,
like the lark loves a new day
if only for the dew.
Estrella, you gypsy.
Bite your red mouth to mine.
Under a clear noon
let me ravage
that apple.
