The better ways, in certain courses, uncertain, are found half-way…
A way of the body, and a half-way of alacritous languor, like a half-closed
end of a geography lesson in one of those shadowed lights, or perhaps they are
luminous shadows, avidly fading over a map of skin spread on a floor
that could well be bed, on the sand, of the waves of many seas…
A certain half-way, rounded in the two slopes of the descent, rolled, always
in the way those lights take along the shadows, of the hands in stance of shell
– or already of dune, complex, sinuous molding of desires…
And a way of mouth, and the half-way of a poem converging, read aloud, with
the secret hushed in the course, certain, of the thighs, parted and yet
so intimately close to the beginning of the chant unique and erect
of the poet – as if the muse and him were learning, from each other, the shadowed
lines of navigating lights, just for the pleasure of crossing the salt of duets
not yet tasted, without really caring to know if the graph of arrival
is uncertain or not…
