I want to be moving spirit, articulate stories
that move on her lips and are the songs of flowers,
the leaves of trees and smell of mud. Her geometry
mystifies me continually, I'm wandering a ubiquity
of confused and intoxicated words, and if I try
to free myself from it I'm only dazzled more
by brilliance. The way her arms move is artistry
of divine nature, it's the mandala I contemplate
under the water oak. She moves my dreams in sultry
veils and a secret choreography, her orchestra
perplexes rational beings. I want to be poetry
she speaks and a song that she smells, I want to be
the whirling verse she is telling as a story.
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