Secluded Nests

Out the window, a river. Above the river,
your palm, fused to the glass.
Between fingers, a little boat passes, then it’s covered by a hand,
you hair shields our kiss.
But you slightly stepped away: “I feel so light today!”

You opened the window, letting cool April in,
”I want to dance by the window! So what if we get ill?
If it’s closed, we can’t hear the music,
of trills, thaws, and other gimps.”
Her palm splashed against the water, like a trout.

Black hair: a flock of birds above the sun, the east.
Breasts: two clouds thrash among the clouds.
Arms: sudden waves, confounding the flow.
And below the window, the blowing of spring winds,
and you can see the sky move across the legs in shadows.

“Enough!” closing the curtain, you wipe away the colors.
Just white, black, and red, the classics, what you would expect.
The cool air rose, entwining our two bodies.
We were thrown against each other by our ringing bareness.
And the music out the window again called us to dance.

The night was scorching, so we threw off the covers.
We begin our morning, like schoolchildren, with a bell:
is it the sun’s ray or your hand?
In the tropics, as much as you drink, you will never recover.

I would like to excel at the art of making love.
To study you in full, to make your feelings as thin as a string.
For one dies in these tropics without cocktails to drink.
The wasps sing ancient hymns inside their concealed troves.

This humid night, you exposed yourself to the dark shore.
Your body played tag with the moon’s luring light.
On these patches of brightness, I, sleeping, slid as if on ice
Waking up, realizing that they had filled up every pore.

The pointillism of my kisses is very thorough.
I’ll fly over your entirety- barely touching- almost a breeze.
Like the sun rising up, like the movement of sand on a beach
More like quicksand, slowly pulling one down, out of view.

After setting the score back to zero,
The high tide will entwine us together,
When it does, we will sing, we will roar, we will scream
This, ancient as life, never quieting hymn.

Your hair was set free.
In liberty from its clip,
It scattered across your cheek.
So bristly was our kiss.

And you sat in a chair,
While I stood on my knees.
And my lips burrowed there,
In the moisture, like deer.
And the rhythm was shattered
Of the waves, birds, bassoons,
And they fluttered and fluttered,
Ardent notes, ardent tunes.

Flustered, suddenly, they all were hushed.
Shadows played an etude silently.
With a simple hair clip, it all started:
It flew off and your hair was set free.

It pulses, the flaming anemone.
(Of course, it is a she, not a he.)
Rough hair, scarlet mouth:
it waits.

This fire will not ignite without moisture.
A feral relief: isthmuses, ravines…
Smaller than the pillow of a finger, a narcotic mushroom.
Shall we repeat?

The celebration of the entrance to our world from another dimension,
from tedious work, from exhilarating laziness.
It lifts one up high, it gobbles up dreams
anemone.

Who was the first one who called it sweet,
A candy, a marmalade?
What idiot?
For, if attraction has a taste,
It would be tart; it would craze.
It is- cornel.

Fingers-sometimes gliding, sometimes flying, sometimes sprinting,
Sometimes, like a bobcat over its prey, they overhang.
The organ breathes and moans.
The weather has mixed all caprices in one:
The sun’s flashes and the thunder’s nuggets,
The chill and the dampness of fog.

I strive to reach the place where there is a light breathing.
It speeds up in tempo with light caressing.
This is fugue in the style of rock-
From whispers to a rumble.
But where do they find sugar,
If your jaws feel locked?

…The coda has been played, now coolness invades.
But stronger than ever is cornel’s taste.

In you, there’s so much fresh breathing:
enough for us to love underwater.
In this thickness – seems it isn't on Earth –
echoes the fins’ murmur.

It is bright, because light is not out.
Legs and hair float as if on their own.
But we’re one, but we aren’t torn by water.
By an arrow of moist fire we are sewn.

The fish approve of us (in the distance, the fins reappear),
but they do not get close: our air is deadly to them.
You once told me: «You only think about bed!»
Where do you see a bed? My feelings for you are deep.

When immersing into the depths, it is best to leave clothing behind.
And to relish the pressure: everything is so tight and so supple!
Once sated, to emerge, in the nude to observe the surroundings,
and, like fish glistening up to the sun, to immerse one more time.

First, of perfume, but, coming out of the shower,
you smelled of shampoo and soap
there was bitterness on the tongue –
from the crest of the head to the toe.
And I took one step back to view you in full – as
one steps back fгom a painting.

On the lips there is twilight,
hands are lighter than breathing.
For now, we are both silent,
we are almost at our peaks.
Two dark dragonflies, ready for flight,
I will play a few notes on them first, sharp and slight.

The rain, through the crack in the curtain,
observes the embraces.
So many zeniths to this fresco,
so many pulses wander within us.
Ubiquitous moisture prevails –
in the shower, in the room, out the glass…

From your knees I will see a core,
where there’s a poppy field… Opium fills our heads!
Trembling, like dragonfly wings,
give yourself to me as the rain observes.
As applause for this caprice of yours
the downpour will slap a red leaf to the window.

Was it the dawn that hid inside you,
Slithered softly as a snake?
Was it nature that, at dawnís will,
Became suddenly awake?

In becoming a spring fantasy
In the midst of December.
I desire to see the dawn
Seeping, luscious, with red embers.

Iíll throw open you, losing my mind
Iíll throw open, gently, scaldingly
And Iíll witness the dawn between your
Slender, willowed, snow-covered trees.

On the swings of half-witted winter
We’ll swing high up - way to the birds
To the blooming, and to the April,
To the faces that gaze upwards

Under skin and under bark,
All is playing the game of spring.
You will redden with hues of dawn
And then, within the dawn, youíll sink.

On a rock in the center of a lake
you sit in a Copenhagen pose.
I would call you a mermaid, but I would not dare:
just look at those legs!
In order to sing over the edgeless water
the song of my tormenting desires,
I would become the throat of a bird…
But I am not as lyrical!
In order to lick your fingers,
in order to tickle your ankles,
I would become the ripples of the lake…
But I do not have enough haste!
In order to, when you swim back to shore,
kiss you many times more and more,
I would become an underwater current…
But I am not as freezing!
In order to gently, but greedily and bravely,
ecstatically torment your body,
I would become a rocky shore…
But I don't have as many bones!
In order to take in all of you in full –
salty, sweet, and tart,
it is better to stay as myself:
a ubiquitous aerial spout.