Jour deux cent vingt et un. 221/365.

Escapril day 7 : NAKED I dig you -

It's true !

I love to love to love to

wander your back and

carve my way to your lungs and

I love to love to love to

Slip and slide on your collarbones and

Head tongue-first into your heart.

I hope we always seek each other's

naked company

I hope we kiss the wrinkles away

I hope we wheeze and huff and puff together

I hope we soothe our old bodies with tenderness

I wonder who will find us after

so and

so much digging after

Our souls have aged again -

When the time to die will come

We could just make love again

one last time

Another small death - and then some

Our bodies and our time will come.

Jour deux cent vingt. 220/365.

I had a dream of myself

Wearing a tuxedo and a petticoat and a tie

Eyelids painted three shades darker than the sun, I crawled

A humble androgynous ghost dancing through the night

I was not me nor myself, barely a shivering soul

I shimmied with princesses and frogs and cunning foxes

I made out with a tall wolf in sheep’s clothing

and passed out in the hallway covered in gray feathers.

I had a dream of myself free of fear

Offering my body to you and you and you and you

at will

And as I span and span and span and fell I

hit the floor, shattering my faintheartedness along with my ankle along with my disdain and my jealousy and my liver and my grand ideas about myself.

I dreamt myself so big that I would fearlessly reach for the stars

And lick them with my giant cat-like tongue

To get a taste of aquarius, of pisces, of my own gemini,

To see what I would be, if I wasn’t me.

Jour deux cent dix-neuf. 219/365.

Je t’attends une main en visière sur les cils

Comme on attend un rêve délicat

Une main en visière sur les cils

J’attends le soleil contre les nuages

J’attends la promesse des insectes qui fertilisent

J’attends l’espoir fragile qui fait tenir longtemps

Une bonne étoile chemin faisant

Un train en lisière de la ville

J’attends

Ta peau sève qui glisse sur la mienne

Le torrent de nos souffles et, de nos vulves,

les pluies diluviennes.

J’attends

comme on espère une clairière dans un bois sombre

Qui chasserait les brigands, les loups et puis les voleurs

La promesse des récoltes pour ceux qui s’aiment

Et qui n’ont plus le temps d’avoir peur.

J’attends le matin dans tes bras

Le jour est loin, la lune est pleine

Ta joue-bourgeon contre la mienne

J’épie tes grands yeux tranquilles.

Pourvu que le sommeil me prenne

Pourvu que mon corps soit docile

Ta douceur entendra ma peine

Une main en visière sur les cils.