A full-mouthed brava

I.
Oh, tesoro,
I madden when we cannot speak— 
the soft,
warm
landscape of your eyes
                        (forgive me)
        could split         fields
        like
        zephyr in spring.

        They rise
                and        
                        fall in
season,
or when one feels
words
like push or pull, or the slip of
a
        hand beneath the moon—

forget the feel of rain,
of
silence, the Italian of my mouth.
                
        It has come down to here
and now,
        the wick of my voice
cooling,
calling
in the distant breeze.

        You are the soft of fruit, 
liquid,  pinned
along the horizon, where no one 
is listening,
a mixture
                of photographs 
in the mind.

And I will drink while women stir, 
whisper on the wire,
        wide eyed fixed on words, 
written for me.


II.
I want you to hear my poetry, 
to pause,
to toss photographs in the fire—
        I         am         
not         her!
        I do not  buy French sleepers
                to weep in.

        I am but a girl—sweet breath, 
delicate, 
flawed.
And I will cr                awl amongst 
the rose
in which you
                plant with perfect form, 
lie still
                        in absolute 
anticipation,
and await with no harbored blush.