The singing birds are wiggling their tongues

The singing birds are wiggling their tongues
in the foggy dawn. I can feel on my skin
the humidity, the indifference and love
of heaven and earth. I remember her mouth,
the purple lipstick and the sensual sound
of breath escaping. The new day's white light

has split the trees, at first a purple light
spreads over the horizon. Leaves are tongues
for the star's nectar, I can hear the sound
of the maples rustling, I feel on my skin
the changing of the weather. The wide mouth
of the bay accepts the storm, its awful love,

its awesome hate and obstinance. I'm in love
with the language of the birds and the light
that reveals the bayous and valleys. My mouth
is filled with words and names, my moving tongue
recites an unknown scripture. Her white skin
is like the light of gods, her movement sounds

like the grace of angels. I hear the soft sound
of bare feet in the mud, the way that love
has driven us mad. The clothing covers skin
and fruit, the fruit is nurtured by the light
of stars and moons, the living give their tongue
to the heavens faithfully. I move my mouth

to recite the paradox and riddle, the mouths
of men in the past built this narrative. Sound
floods the open spaces like water, tongues
of fire illumine the distance. I'm in love
with the repetition of cycles, with the light
that discloses mysteries, with her skin

and the way she makes love. I feel the skin
of the pear and apple, I take within my mouth
the precious fruit. All about me is a light
that I can't explain, I can hear a sound
that I can't decipher, I can feel this love
that doesn't make sense. The confused tongues

of birds grace my skin, the melodic sound
of songs from open mouths. I am in love
with the light articulated by her tongue.