Lover, the movement of the turning stars

Lover, the movement of the turning stars
is reflected in the water of the bayou.
The cows are listening, the birds I hear
are living in the trees, the light of truth
moves silently on the ground. There is an art
to the way you breathe, to the way that you

move your eyes and use your gaze. Is your
allure beyond the zodiac? The fixed stars
don't move, the shaman practices archaic art
and describes a new calendar. The bayou
becomes a clock that may reveal the true
declination of the Sun's path. The wide ears

of frogs are listening and the owl's ears
hear syllabic phrases. I'm imagining you
as the light in pools on the floor, the truth
of an obscure philosophy. The yellow star
that brings the day to the pasture and bayou
gives my eyes your image, it gives my art

its subject. Clouds are wandering the art
of a blue sky, the cows must be hearing
the changing air pressure. Along the bayou
the grass is dying, the morning air is your
cold breath, the twinkling of the white stars
reveals the wetness of your eyes. The true

and sure way isn't revealed, I see the truth
escape like a wisp of smoke. An orange star
moves in the air above the fire whose ears
have heard the trees. I am in love with you,
the way you sleep, your dreaming surreal art,
I can't help it. I trace the lines of bayous

with my fingers, trace the paths of bayous
in the broad heaven, examine the truths
the shadows of the trees reveal. It's our
duty to move toward the only infinite art
that escapes expression. Lover, we must hear
the whispers of the luminaries, the stars

who move in love. The startling Sun is truly
revealed above the bayou, I can hear
the art that resides in no one but you.