This is the most extraordinary woman in the world,
She does not go to bed at any certain time.
when she playfully dances, she dances with you,
when she hummingly sings, it is a sort of birthing of half the world,
when she goes walking, she has a lurid affair with sunlight;
this is a woman who holds men’s faces in the palm of
her hands, this is a woman you can’t possibly part from, because
she doesn’t come easy and she doesn’t come hard. This woman
is the essence of the roots of poetry. She arranges for the secret thoughts of every woman’s fantasies
the minute she sees the warm frailty and depth of the sun, because the sun is a sensuous thing
to sit under. To love the scent of another is to want to fill it with a lover.
I believe this woman does not understand the silly and insipid words like
would, likely, depending, always, never
those are English words
that have no place in the mouths of people,
those are words made up for the language of the current and shallow cultural thought,
that have forgotten, or never learned, to serve the sweaty language of lovers.
Those words are in a leaking briefcase at the bottom of the ocean,
Where, strange and frightening, toothy fish gnaw openly upon them,
uncomprehending fish that grotesquely mouth the strange words
like control, perhaps, except, attachment.
The most extraordinary woman in the world,
above, is blatantly sunning on the sandy, perfect beach; when she sighs,
the trees far off are heard breathing in
the loveliest and most peace filled towns in the world.