Her voice is low when the Sun starts to come

Her voice is low when the Sun starts to come
up in the east. I am thumbing through the books
scattered across the floor, the kerosine flame
flickers in the humid darkness. I'm reading a song
from the leaves of the trees, I'm slowly becoming
an uttered monosyllable. I see the leather
that covers her body, the muscle-car's fumes
and I hear the pistons turning. The way the horse
moves its legs and generously jumps has become
the way I hear her music. I'm hearing the intervals
in a specific modality, she's reciting a poem
from the North African desert and moving her hips
to the music of guitars. I am loving her who
breathes the air and is present, I begin to come
into the light of day, the warm Sun is rising
through blankets of clouds. Riverbanks give echo
to the rhythm of her language, to her lilting song
and give it resonance. I just do not know
the motion of her cycles or which of the pitches
she seats herself upon, but I hear the bayou
water flowing, the sounds of the frogs and crickets
in the trees. O love there is nothing but you
in this world of light and liquid, there is nothing
sweeter than your fruit! The vine-ripe tomatoes
turn a deep red from their young green, and I
wonder if there is anything to know but you?