Inorganic Matter
A scent of grass in the air!
Quietness, and a steady breeze
the ring of a bicycle and a man’s shout
from another one’s place and another one’s life.
The head leans against a window and ponders life
and the existence of itself, and this pane of glass
preventing it from falling, and a woman’s grasp
cold skin and the rushing of blood.
In us there is the animal, the vital, the unaware;
the sunlit neck moistened with sweat and unrestrained dream;
the thin black eyebrow and the fiery eye
and the delirium of conscious sleep.
Your face escapes me, and I see nothing but
the rims of eyelids, up close, in the sun
and your gentle voice calling me in the darkness of night
echoing away until I open my eyes.
My memory is the stone, and your face is the fossil;
I see atoms in your eyes, and your very own skin
has suddenly hardened, and lost its life,
and heat, and touch, and radiance.
You are bliss, and immortal; unconscious, like nature.
Chemistry, and the bitter salt in my tears.
A rearrangement of atoms so sweet, so lovely;
you are breath and life, and inorganic matter.
